


Mythos Bait

by Daryl_Alenko



Series: Legends Abound [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-01 11:43:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 75,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11485698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daryl_Alenko/pseuds/Daryl_Alenko
Summary: So, there's a chance that Stiles is the Xander of Derek's pack. Totally irresistible to every mythical creature out there! The Pack .. yeah, they don't react very well! Mostly crack! Because I can't help but angst, also!





	1. Love Cervere

**Author's Note:**

> Pack includes: Scott, Danny, Jackson, Lydia, Erica, Isaac, Derek, and Stiles. (Stiles is the only human.)
> 
> This is how I picture Gisila, but with black at the tips of her hair: http://i.imgur.com/1JntlV7.jpg

A time that will one day become known as "The Worst Months in Stiles' History" begins as so many other things seem to; with werewolf business. Derek Hale, resident sculpted Alpha God, has decided that it's time for another pack meeting. In the current reign of Peace Times, this is basically just an excuse to call everyone under one roof and find semi-entertaining ways to pass the time. 

"Every one get comfortable. Once this starts, I do -not- want a bunch of moving around or I'll kick someone's ass." Sourwolf, thus dubbed by the superior wit of one Stiles Stilinski, grumbles almost absently as he moves to set up the DVD player said wit recently purchased for Pack Meetings.

"I CALL STILES!!" Three voices growl demandingly. Erica, Isaac, and Scott scrambling toward the teenager that is sprawled across the loveseat. Stiles immediately lifts his hands and shoves his knees out for good measure, trying to ward his exuberant friends off.

"No! He was mine before he was -any- of yours!" Scott whines, his usual puppy voice taking on brand new depths of patheticness even as Isaac and Erica stare him down dispassionately.

"Yeah, but -I'm- his favorite." Isaac points out, his voice dripping with smug enthusiasm as he tries to edge his packmates out. Erica snorts. 

"Yeah, but I'm the softest." Her heady growl of the word softest negates about two-thirds of that truth, even going so far as to draw a bit of a chuckle from Stiles.

"I patently do -not- have favorites! Sorry, bro, but that totally counts you, too." He aims a sweetly apologetic smile at Scott, who looks as if he has been pierced through the heart or something. "Now, hurry it up and figure it out." Stiles waves a hand lazily in their direction, so used to thier odd behavior that he doesn't even bat an eyelash when they raise thier hands up into the classic Rochambeau pose. 

"1 .... 2 ...... 3!!" The excited yelps of three teenagers smacking their furled fists against their flat palms is the loudest noise for a split second before Isaac lets out a howl of happiness.

"I win!" He calls out, as if every one in the room, even the humans that can't smell the happiness wafting off of him, would some how be blind to the fact he won. He carefully edges around the other two, flinching slightly when they both grunt and lunge at him threatening.

"Hey! None of that, now!" Stiles warns lightly, even as he holds his tired arms out to the overexcited puppy that plops down, into his embrace. They carefully move, squirming and flexing and rearranging until Stiles is settled on his side, Isaac wrapped around him. Curls pillowed under the curve of his chin as they cuddle. 

"Hmmm ... I'm still the favorite!" Isaac stage whispers, the other two tossing angry glares in his direction. Stiles snorts, reaches up and tugs a lock of Isaac's hair, until the teen yelps. Not in pain, of course, just in acknowledgement of the reprimand.

"Oh come on. We all know who Stiles' favorite is, Isaac." Jackson stares down his nose at the cuddled duo, words dripping with barely disguised disdain as he curls Lydia a little closer to him. Maybe, if he curls close enough into her, he will not be forced to watch the stupidity of his packmates.

"Me!" The pup whines desperately, and Stiles finally just rolls his eyes and nuzzles the edge of his nose along the curve of the pup's temple. 

"Don't let King Douche-bag rile you up, Isaac. He's just trying to dethrone our fearless leader for title of Sourwolf." Isaac giggles against the warm expanse of Stiles' neck, causing him to squirm happily beneath the attention.

"Would you all just shut -up-!?" Derek snarls with the air of the greatly put upon as he levers himself back to his feet and moves to plop rigidly into his chair.

"Nope." "Probably not." "-Stiles- is here, after all." They all chirp and chatter, Stiles glaring in the general vicinity of the rest of the Pack, using a blanket look to try and silence whoever had name dropped him.

"Isaac." Derek growls and the pup snickers lightly before he shifts just right, so that his messy blond hair becomes a curtain of curl across Stiles' mouth. Forcing him to either hold his piece or swallow a mouth full of werewolf hair. "Errn." The Alpha breathes out a grunt that may be suspiciously close to a thank you as the the TV lights up with promises of exciting new DVDs on the way. 

Stiles' nostrils flare suddenly, a few stray strands of the pup's hair tickling at his nose as he realizes that he smells something.

"Isaac ... Isaac ..." He wheezes, tipping his head so that he can breathe even deeper. "What is that smell, Isaac? It's like ... it's .. so sweet and warm, and .... earthy." He leans closer, until his nose is buried against the expanse of Isaac's crown, the pup whimpering in pure bliss at the extra attention.

"STILES!" Derek grinds out from clenched jaws. "Shut. Up." The teen pouts faintly but continues to quietly nuzzle and nose at Isaac's hair. Enjoying the sweet, calming scent.

* * *

3 Days Later

"Scott!" Stiles whines petulantly, his gaze darting back and forth all over the store. This is the third time in ten minutes that something shiny, pretty, delicious, or annoying has distracted his best friend from their mission and he is getting tired of it! A quick shopping trip should -not- take this long, damn it!

"That's -IT-! No goodies for you." He grumbles under his breath as he grabs hold of the plastic handle of the shopping cart and rams it forward. If Scott is going to act like an irresponsible pup, no treats for him! He maneuvers the mass of metal and plastic down the various aisles of the store, muttering nonsensical words that his friends sometimes call the 'Stiles Code.' Apparently, it happens often enough that it actually deserves a name!

"Hmm .. Derek doesn't like it, but Isaac and Erica do." He squints down at a box of something and after a moment, tosses several of them into the basket before carrying on.

"Me and Scott, but he doesn't get any, so only one." He settles it gently in the cart, before something shiny catches his attention. He rushes down the aisle, drawing up short. His eyes widen when he takes a deep breath and is assaulted with the same scent from a few nights ago. Sweet. Warm. Earthy. A shiver trembles down his spine, hands tightening on the cart as he seems to forget about the treat he had been rushing toward. After a moment, he pushes the cart against the end of the aisle ... before abandoning it a few feet away. 

"What ... is ... that ..." He twitches, feeling the kind of nervous energy he usually takes Adderall to curb. He sniffs at the air as subtly as he can, suddenly understanding why his werewolf friends rely so heavily on the ability. He feels his body twitch again, his hands drumming against his hips as he continues to comb the store. Trying to find the source of the smell.

"Excuse me!" He jumps back as he turns the corner of an aisle and nearly collides with a girl. She looks to be roughly the same age, with long, flowing blond hair, the tips of which have been dyed a feathery black. She's dressed in a daisy yellow sundress, and Stiles really, really isn't staring. He'd swear to that!

"Oh, sorry. My bad! I was just .. looking for something. I didn't mean to run into you! It's just, that, like, I can swear I smell something, and I thought the other night that it was my friend's hair, but he's not even here today, so it totally couldn't have been. So, I -need- to find what it is." He rambles on, unable to take his eyes off of her, even though he is still tilting his head here and there to try and see if he can find the smell again. 

"Oh, it's okay. I really should've been watching where I was going." She giggles. Like, legit -giggles- and it may be the sweetest, warmest, most oddly weird sound that Stiles has ever heard. He kinda wants to hear it again. And again and again, actually. "So, what does it smell like?"

Stiles blinks. For a single moment, he thinks he had to have heard her wrong. What does a pretty girl care what he may or may not have smelled?? It's surreal!

"Oh! Uhm, warm and sweet and kinda earthy. Which is why I thought it was my friend at first. He's most of those things. But, it yeah, it can't be." He fumbles for words, and feels almost as if he might actually leap out of his skin when she giggles again. He catches another faint waft of the secret scent and his insides melt a little.

"Oh, erm, so .. your friend is, uh .. just a friend?" She asks softly, shyly, and Stiles jumps. Actually jumps a little, in surprise. Oh, right. Non-werewolf-pack-people would find it strange and off if you went around talking about sniffing a friend. The fuck is his life, that he has to -remember- things like this?? 

"Yeah! Totally! I mean, he's just a friend. In fact, he kinda feels more like my kid, or my puppy dog at times. Like, no non-friend feelings for him. At all." Someone shoot him now! He finds himself wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole as he struggles to climb out of the verbal hole he's dug for himself. She giggles again, and now he's wearing the biggest, dopiest grin he's ever worn before.

"Aww, it's cute that you're that close with your friend. I'm Gisila." When she holds her hand out to him, he nearly pounces it. Wincing when he realizes that his hand is moist and clammy from sweat.

"That's an -awesome- name! I'm Stiles." He shakes her hand clumsily, but she doesn't seem to mind. She just smiles shyly at him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Gisila." She bats her lashes at him before drawing her hand back.

"It's a pleasure to meet you too, Stiles. That's a cool name. I --" She's cut off by the sound of sneakers squeaking on the floor as Scott rushes up with an armful of packets, pouches, cans, and boxes. Stiles eyes widen, his hand reaching up to smack himself in the forehead as he watches Scott tump it all into the cart.

"Damn it, Scott, no. Just no! I am -not- paying for all of that, man. The last time you did this, I dropped nearly 100 bucks on you guys." He huffs angrily, starting to reach for the items his friend had added, muttering under his breath.

"But .. but STILES ... please??" Scott pulls out his best puppy dog eyes, that sweet, pleading smile appearing. Stiles knows he's screwed. He's going to crumble, like he -always- does. "I promise it won't go to waste. You know we'll eat all of it! Stiiiillleesss..." He drawls the name out in his best have pity on me whine, and Stiles lets the items slip through his fingers, back into the cart.

"Yeah. Okay. FINE!" He huffs, yelping in surprise when he feels Scott's arms wrap around him like an awkward octopus. And then the cool press of his best friend's nose to the crook of his neck makes him shiver.

"So .. -just- friends, huh?" The same amused, angelic giggle reminds Stiles that they're not standing there alone. His head jerks to the side, eyes wide and surprised when he sees her still standing there. Her expression stuck somewhere between incredulous and amused. "Though, I suppose he smells good enough." She teases, and Stiles wishes for that whole earth swallowing thing for the second time. 

"What?! Yes, yes, Isaac and I -are- just friends. And yeah, no, this isn't Isaac. This is Scott. My best friend since forever, so this... yeah, this totally doesn't mean what it -looks- like it means. Honest." He reaches up, struggling to pry his friend off. But Scott really doesn't seem to get the point.

Because he remains wrapped around him, nuzzling against him like Stiles belongs to him.

"Uh-huh." Gisila giggles again, reaching out to place a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Whatever you say, Stiles." Scott's head whips around, a low throat-ed growl causing her to let go and back up quickly. 

"FML .." Stiles whispers the letters softly, elbowing his best friend as he smiles at Gisila. "Don't mind him. He's an idiot with horrible manners. Maybe I'll see you around, Gisila?" He tries to disguise the hope in his voice, but it's nearly impossible. 

"I'm sure you will, Stiles. Bye." She turns and heads the way she had come, Stiles straining to watch her until she has disappeared.

"Seriously, dude, what the fuck!? Did you just -growl- at the insanely attractive chick that actually took time out of her day to -flirt- with me?!" He elbows him over and over until Scott finally lets him go with another pout. 

"She smelled wrong. Besides, you're -pack-, Stiles. You don't need someone like her." Scott grabs him by the arm, yanking him back toward the cart. "Lets go." For the rest of the shopping trip, he practically remains glued to Stiles' hip, eyeing anyone that gets too close to his best friend.

* * *

An hour later, and Stiles is still seething over his best friend scaring away what will likely amount to his only chance with the pretty girl that actually took time out of her day to flirt with him. Gisila had the makings of one hell of a fling and Scott messed it all up! And then implied that, because she wasn't PACK, it wasn't -right- for him to have wanted her. That really just pisses him off on so many levels! 

"Who pissed in your cheerios?" Danny's voice catches Stiles off guard and he nearly drops the armful of junk food bags he's carrying into the Hale house. 

"Thank you, Danny, for that disgusting visual." He grouses, knowing that his friend doesn't really deserve his ire, but unable to help dishing it out. "If you -must- know, Scott totally just ruined what will likely be my only chance at a fling!" He tosses the bags onto the kitchen table, huffing and grumbling as he goes.

"... yeah, right." A derisive snort is -not- what he had expected from the other teen. In fact, it stings and fans the flames of his anger even higher.

"Fuck you, Danny." He snarls the words, shoving the bags further onto the table before he turns and heads back toward his jeep. Or, more accurately, he turns straight into a hard wall of unyielding muscle. AKA Sculpted Alpha God. "Lurk much?" He hisses, preparing to take a step back until he feels the vice-like grip of a hand at the nape of his neck. Keeping him firmly planted in place.

"Stiles." The Alpha has a way of doing that. Of making a single word, usually Stiles' name, hold a plethora of meaning. In this case, if he were to hazard a guess, he would say it is a mix of annoyance, curiosity, and anger. Mostly the last one, though. As it always seems to be. "You smell -wrong-." The same word Scott had used, and it does little to alleviate the anger that the teen is still stewing in.

"Yeah, I get it, man! I'm not allowed to smell like anything but -pack-! Scott already -informed- me of that when he was scaring away Gisila at the store!" His voice has grown steadily, until he is practically screaming, lightheaded, in Derek's face. Danny looks taken aback, realizing that Stiles was telling the truth about the girl. He has a single moment to feel bad for taking it so lightly, but never gets the chance to say anything.

Because Derek is suddenly several feet -away- from Stiles, his rugged features unreadable.

"He shouldn't have done that. I'll talk to him." And then, just like that, he's gone. Turned on his heel and stalked away, grabbing Scott by the shoulder and leading him outside. Stiles deflates a little where he stands, surprised to find an arm sliding gently along his waist. Danny pulls him into his side.

"Come on, spaz. Lets go get comfortable on the couch. Let the others get every thing unpacked for a change." It's an olive branch. Danny's way of apologizing for popping off, while simultaneously offering to be there for his friend. And Stiles will be damned if he doesn't take that offer. He lays his head over on his friend's shoulder, allowing himself to be led toward a seat.

* * *

Three hours later, and Gisila has all but been forgotten! The arrival of the rest of the Pack, as well as a stilted apology from Scott, aided in softening and lifting Stiles mood. To the point he has been his usual, chatty self.

The only thing amiss, though Stiles has yet to realize it, is that Danny has not let him out of his sight for the entire three hours. He has sat beside him, gotten up to get food and drinks with him, even cautiously hovered when he went to speak with other members of the pack. Every one else has noticed, but not Stiles. 

"Danny!" Derek snaps, causing both Danny and Stiles to jump in surprise. It is only after his attention has been dragged from a conversation he was having with Erica, that Stiles realizes Danny is squashed up against him. Head on his shoulder. Nose buried against the curve of his neck. Breathing slow and steady. In fact, now that he's been made aware, it tickles! He jerks away from his friend, wide eyed. 

"The hell, man!?" He reaches up to shove his palm against his neck, wiping at the too warm skin.

"Sorry, must've fallen asleep." Danny offers up his most innocent smile, and Stiles feels himself blushing right to the roots of his hair. He pushes himself up, off the couch, another wave of anger trying to take hold. 

"Whatever, man. Excuse me." He turns and heads for the door, making it only a few feet before he realizes that half the room is up and headed after him. By half, he means Scott, Isaac, Danny, and Erica. "No! I want to be -alone- for a few minutes." He grinds that out, and is shocked when they all turn and immediately take their seats. He finds his gaze darting toward Derek, expecting the Alpha Asshole to have glared them into submission. However, when even Mr. Stoic looks surprised, he realizes that they relented for no other reason than the fact he asked them to. Strange. Kinda exhilarating. However, he's still feeling upset, so he turns and heads outside to collapse on the porch.

He pushes his legs into some stiff semblance of an Indian style pose, his hands resting on the grime coated wood of the porch as he stares off into the distance. 

"Listen up, because I will -not- be repeating myself." Jackson's droll, dry voice catches him by surprise. He had been aware of someone approaching, but for obvious reasons, Jackson was the last one he would have figured. Hell, even Derek was a more likely outcome than Jackson.

"Hmm." For once, Stiles barely makes a noise as he watches the other teen plop down. Onto the porch. So close that their shoulders brush as he gets comfortable.

"Scott shouldn't have interfered with your flirting." Yet another surprise. For some reason, he had expected the same spiel about pack, smelling wrong, etc. "But, you were wrong, too." Okay, that's more like what he had expected. Now comes the rant about Pack, and keeping everything insular, etc. "There's no way that girl will be your only chance at a fling, Stiles."

Stiles' mouth falls open in dumbfounded surprise. Some small sliver of him wants to demand that Jackson -repeat- that. Several times. Maybe until he's actually able to believe that it came out of his old bully's mouth ... or until he can believe it might actually be true.

"... huh??" So succinct and witty! He silently curses himself for sounding so stupid.

"You are not giving yourself enough credit, Stiles. No, you're not as rich as me, as sweet and innocent as Scott and Isaac, as smart as Danny or Lydia, or as hot as Derek or Erica." Stiles feels as if he's going to keel over, curl up in a ball, and cry. Because -this- .. this is more like the asshole he grew up with. As far as pep talks go, this one sucks balls. "You're a spaz, you talk too much, but you're funny, kind, loyal, and dare I say it .. cute. There'll be other Gisilas."

This is Bizarro world. This is surreal and strange and Stiles could -almost- consider it awesome, if he weren't so sure that it's a ploy or something.

"Jackson .. you do know that I'm not gonna try and steal Lydia or anything, right?" Those words are followed by a scathing, are you kidding look, and Stiles nods slowly. "It's just .. you're not usually the type to .. like, say any of this stuff. It's almost .. scary. Like, is something bad about to happen? Did you guys find out I'm dying or something? Can you smell my impending doom, so you decided to be nice in a round about way?!" He can feel himself working up to a total freak out. Which should've escalated to nuclear proportions when he feels Jackson's arms go around him. Voluntarily. -Without- intending to be violent!

"Stop, Stiles. Breathe, already. No, you are not dying to my knowledge. Just .. I meant what I said. I also meant it when I said I would not be repeating it. -EVER-. So, yeah." Jackson pulls back and levers himself to his feet, heading into the house so that Stiles can have his time alone. 

"I ..." He's not sure what he wants to say, especially since he knows that Jackson is already gone. He'd have to shout for the werewolf senses to pick up anything. 

"There it is again!" He gawks, his eyes wide, his nostrils flaring desperately when that scent hits him out of nowhere. He scrambles to his feet, jumping clumsily off the porch and taking off in the direction the sweet smell is coming from.

* * *

Six times, he has tripped over debris on the forest floor. Three times, he has dropped his small flashlight and been forced to grope around for it. And twice, he has stopped long enough to vehemently bitch at himself for coming out here in the first place. Derek won't even have to threaten him this time, because he's about ready to just throw himself at the Alpha's feet and admit his own stupidity! 

"Smooth move, Stiles!" He snarls at himself as he falls for the seventh time, his flashlight spinning off into the darkness for the fourth time. "Fucking hell!" He grunts, staring up at the sky from his back. He can feel fallen branches pushing up against his shoulder and the small of his back. A jagged rock jutting against his hip. "I give up, God. I really, -really- do! How the -hell- is this my fucking life!? Even when something -isn't- trying to eat me, I'm sprawled out in the damn woods like a ... a spaz!" He has hated that word as of late, but it feels so very true at this point. "Fuck my life, fuck all of those assholes! I should just run away!" He's the useless, ridiculous spaz that serves no real purpose to the pack. He could crawl away and die tomorrow and nothing would change. The Pack would go on, his Dad would go on. Every thing would be --

"Stiles!? Are you okay!?" He jerks upward, so that he's balanced on his elbows enough that he can glance in the direction the soft voice had come from. 

"... Gisila!? What in the world are you doing out here!?" He squeaks, his voice breaking in confusion as he finally manages to pull himself up, off the ground. Struggling to brush himself off. 

"I could ask you the same thing, Stiles." She huffs as she steps up to him. With a gentle hand, she reaches out to pluck a few leaves from his hair. Causing him to blush. "I've been hiking through the woods on and off the last few days. I heard you talking to yourself and thought I'd come see what was going on. Oh! Here." She holds his flashlight out to him and he snatches it back from her with a sigh of relief.

"Thanks. Yeah." He sucks in a trembled breath, eyes darting around for a moment. "This is my friend's land. His house is a little ways from here. I, uh, I got tired of putting up with them all and came for a walk. Just sorta tripped, but I'm okay." She giggles, and he feels his insides churn and then melt. He takes a few steps closer to her.

"Wow, you're really brave, Stiles. Traipsing through the big bad woods, all alone." Her eyes are wide in playful terror, and he can feel the large grin that spreads across his face. There are a dozen different flirtatious things that occur to him, but he ends up blurting out something much, much different.

"I'm never alone out here, Gisila." He glances around the forest, his expression softening into one of happiness. Even when things go bump in the night, he knows that he's as safe here as he is almost anywhere else. "In fact, this is one of the places I feel the safest." All he'd have to do is tip his head back and scream, and the Pack would be there as soon as possible. No matter how dark and angry his thoughts had gotten earlier, he knows he truth.

He's even sure that at least one of the Pack is probably out here now. Maybe not close enough to eavesdrop on what is going on, but close enough to be able to pounce and fight pretty quickly. Because they will know he's out here, and even if Derek wouldn't demand that someone be out here, most of them would've volunteered.

She giggles and he shivers. An actual, full body shiver as he moves closer to her. As he smells the sweetest, warmest scent ever.

"I don't think you're a spaz, Stiles." Her voice has dropped into a sultry, lulling timbre that dances down his spine and leaves him feeling boneless. Almost .. compliant. "I think you're wonderful. You're so cute. And you exude confidence and loyalty and sweetness." With each compliment, his eyes become more and more hooded until he realizes they have closed all the way.

"Hmm ... really? You .. you think all of that .. about me?" He feels her hand cupping his cheek. Her palm warm and silken against his skin. 

"Of course I do. I've been watching you for a few weeks now, Stiles. The way you mother your friends. The way you take care of your Father." He makes a happy, content sound as he leans closer to her hand. Deep down, he knows he should be freaked out. He knows that he should be wondering how the hell a girl he just met three days ago, has been watching him for weeks. Like, how in the world had she managed to see how he treated his Dad, when thier -only- interaction these days, are in their home??

"You are every thing someone could want in a mate, Stiles." She purrs the words beside his ear, giggling once more. This close, he can smell the full brunt of the sweetness of her breath and it draws a lazy moan from him. He wants to marry that scent. Bathe in it every day, because it's perfect somehow. 

Mate .... mate .. mate ..... MATE ...... that word keeps trying to headbutt his mind, but his brain is full of her sweet words and sweeter breath.

"Will you, Stiles?" She purrs, her lips brushing the curve of his ear, making him whimper for so many reasons. Want. He really, really WANTS right now, and his brain is trying to break free of that need, but he can't. Because her hand is on his cheek and her breath is tickling his ear and her lips are hovering so very, very close. 

"I ... I ..." He sucks in a deep breath, his eyes struggling to open when another warm breath blasts in his face. Blankets his senses with her and that sweetness and God help him, but he'll be any thing she wants him to be. 

"Ye --" He yelps in surprise when a vice-like grip on his arm hauls him backward, his feet unsteady on the uneven ground as his eyes finally open. 

"Stiles." Derek's sharp, Alpha voice causes a different kind of shiver down his spine even as he feels a pair of possessive arms wrapping around him from behind. 

"Dude! What the hell is .. your .. pro...blem..." His words trail off to a silence so deep that he isn't even -breathing-! Because he can see the entire Pack in a semi-circle, fanned out around them. He can see Derek in front of him, Erica and Jackson to the left. Danny, Isaac, and Lydia to the right. Which means the familiar arms around him are Scott. He sinks desperately back, into his friend's protective embrace. Because he suddenly feels weak, sick, and faint.

Standing a few feet in front of Derek, is Gisila. What -should- be a beautiful, sweet, light haired teenage girl. But instead, looks like a feline creature standing on two legs. With bright fur covered in black disks that look almost like Egyptian eyes. Her teeth have elongated and sharpened to needle like points. Her face has contorted; long and feline, with tufted ears that are flattened back in anger and warning. 

"No!" She shrieks, her claws clacking as she takes a step forward. Not seeming to care that there is a -very- pissed off alpha with a pack just as pissed, between her and her prize. "He is MINE! He was just going to say yes! Stiles ... please .... Stiles ..." She opens her mouth, another soft, bellish giggle. Another waft of that enticing scent. He feels himself beginning to pull against Scott's arms, feels them tighten until it's almost painful. "That's it. Come to me, Stiles. You will be my Mate! I will give you such a beautiful, joyous life! We can travel all over the world. Our children will be pretty and brilliant." She makes a soft, purring sound and Stiles pulls so hard against Scott's arms that he cries out in pain, bruising himself.

"Stiles!" Derek snarls in his Alpha voice, and while it has no actual power over the human as it does over the werewolves of the pack, it has a deep, personal connection. It snaps the hold of the other creature. Stiles gives a quick, careful shake of his head. His eyes snap closed so that he can recenter himself before they flutter back open.

"It's okay, Scott." He murmurs, patting the arms as they slowly begin to loosen. Gisila's eyes widen and she takes one more step forward, putting her near enough that Derek could reach out and kill her in no time flat. However, he's struggling not to let his instincts do just that. She hasn't harmed anyone, so he will not kill her ... yet.

"Stiles?" She questions, shifting from foot to foot, her claws tapping against her hips in a nervous habit that seems so very familiar to the teen. It mirrors his own anxiety perfectly.

"Look, Gisila ..." He sighs, carefully stepping up, beside Derek. A little too close given the fact that he could full out Alpha any moment and rage after the poor girl. But, it can't be helped. Before he can take another step, he feels the clawed hand grabbing at his shoulder. Claws pressing into him but not breaking the cloth, let alone the skin. "I, uhm .. I'm not even sure what you are. And I'm flattered, really, but I'm -not- going to run away with you and be your mate, okay?" He bites at his bottom lip, his own hands now tapping and molding to his hips as he watches her. He feels as if he's going to vibrate right out of his skin!

"She's a Love Cervere ... a Pantera." Derek growls the words from gritted jaws, teeth struggling to elongate but he's holding himself together as best he can. 

"Dude, you're a panther!? That is so freakin' cool!" Stiles' eyes light up with curiosity and intrigue, though he immediately winces when he hears the shoulder of his shirt shred as a claw threatens to actually puncture his skin. Right. Mighty Alpha and Pantera showdown.

"Really? You think it's cool??" Gisila's voice is practically a coo of happiness as she watches him. When she takes another step forward, Derek releases a bellowing snarl that causes her to jump back. And for one horrible moment, Stiles thinks he's going to feel blood running down his skin. But no, Derek is really, -really- trying to maintain control.

"Yeah, it's cool, but, uhm ... I'm sorry, Gisila. I belong -here-." 

"But .. you said that you should just run away. I'm giving you that chance, Stiles! We can leave Beacon Hills .. we can see the whole world. You'll never want for anything." She giggles soft and sultry, and Stiles' eyes immediately lid heavily. He can barely keep them open!

"N...no.." He struggles to make the word known. Even after his eyes have closed fully, he makes no move toward her. And not just because Derek's claw is dug into his shoulder at the moment. "No, Gisila. Can you give me them? My pack? Can you ensure the safety of my Dad?" He sighs softly, pries his eyes open. "Thank you, but I'm not the guy for you. I would always be missing my friends, I would have my mind half a dozen places other than with you. And frankly .. I'm way too young to be thinking about pretty, brilliant babies." He takes a careful step backward, not that surprised when his back collides with someone's chest. Scott. Of course he had been at his back. Just as he's sure that the pack has moved closer to ring them in. Partially to show her she has no chance, and partially just to be there for Stiles. 

"B-but ... are you sure?" She shifts from foot to foot again, forcing herself to calm. Forcing herself back into the human form that Stiles had been drooling over earlier.

"Yeah, I'm sure, Gisila." He smiles sadly at her. 

"Forgive me, Stiles. I thought .. I-I hoped ..." She sniffles softly, reaching up to push her bangs out of her eyes as she smiles sadly at him. "Alright, then. I will be out of your territory by morning, Stiles. If you ever change your mind .." She turns and takes off, preternatural speed carrying her quickly through the woods, away from the pack. Stiles moves forward slowly, grabbing a piece of paper that flutters toward the ground. He chuckles when he reads her name and number on it, shoving the piece of paper into his pocket before turning back around. The entire pack is now huddled around a red-eyed Alpha that is impossibly still. That looks torn between relieved and really, -really- pissed off. 

"Did she -really- want to mate to STILES?!" Jackson breaks the tense silence, immediately elbowed by Lydia on one side and Isaac on another. 

"Did she -really- think Beacon Hills is -Stiles- territory?" Danny blurts out, the others looking toward him with mirrored curiosity. However, there's no one to answer those questions. Because Stiles and Derek are still staring at one another, both expressions unreadable. 

"... was she telling the truth? Do you want to run away?" If Stiles didn't know any better, he would think that Derek sounds accusatory ... and hurt. He swallows heavily, and after a moment he sighs and shakes his head.

"Seriously? No, I don't. I like my life, Derek. I like it -here-." He grins shakily, glancing at where the Pantera had stood moments ago. "It's a tempting thought, getting to run off and be spoiled, getting to see the world with a beautiful woman. But I meant what I told her. It wouldn't mean shit without the Pack, without my Dad. I belong here." He yelps once again, when he finds himself nearly tackled by half the pack.

"Okay." A world of meaning in just one word, again. Derek turns and begins to run back toward the house. "You're all staying the night." He drawls out, no one really surprised. Because within the hour, they are all piled on a mattress on the floor, every member of the pack touching Stiles in some way. To wipe away the Pantera's scent, and to re-affirm that he has chosen them.

* * *

Puppy piles can totally be the highlight of Stiles' day ... until they happen five nights in a row! By the fifth night of being squashed beneath heavy, hot bodies, Stiles has had enough! 

On the sixth day, Derek texts him to tell him that every one will be meeting at 9 to sleep and all he can do is stare down at his phone in complete horror. A few years ago, the thought of being the center of attention for a group of smokin' hot people would've been a dream come true! Even if one of those people carries the label of his best friend. He doesn't care that it's a group comprised mostly of guys, or that one girl is taken and the other scares the shit out of him. Two years ago, that would've been the AWESOME in awesome sauce. But tonight? 

"Hell to the no, yo!" He sags in his computer chair, contemplates throwing his phone out the window. Not that it would do any good. Schnauzer the Sour Wolfhound would totally find it, demand to know -why- he threw it out, and then come up with some horrible, visual-heavy threat on what he would do to him if he tossed it again. Not that Derek should give a damn why he would toss his phone in the first place.

Yeah, okay, so he's 'on notice' about the whole wandering into the woods to chase the magical sweet breath of a fucking PANTHER, but whatever. That totally wasn't his fault! Probably. Maybe.

'Not tonight.' Perfectly succinct and to the point. He hits send and starts to throw his phone to the bed but it's already dinging with an incoming. 

'Yes.' Seriously!? He already replied that quick, with a single command of yes? His jaws snap closed, his lips peel back, and he actually GROWLS at his empty bedroom. At the phone clenched so tightly in his hand that his fingers ache with it. One of these days, he's going to have a coronary or at the least, a nervous breakdown and it's going to be the fault of these furry fuckers. 

'No.' He sends the text and then immediately turns his phone off. He exhales sharply and shoves it into his desk drawer for now. He knows this is a bad idea. He knows that Alpha Asshole is going to overreact and be more of a pain in the ass than he would've been if he had just given in and gone over there. But -none- of that is what matters at the moment! What -matters- .. is that he's had enough. He is not a beta. He is not indebted to or under the command of, Derek Hale. If he doesn't want to go cuddle with the wolves, he has the right to refuse.

Because no matter what Derek or any of the others tried to say about the puppy pile, it is not, in fact, about -him-. It is about -them- and the fact that they seem to think that he -belongs- to them! Not -with-, but -to-. And that is starting to hurt so badly that he wants to scream and rip his hair out.

He wants this to be -their- fault. He wants to believe that it's something in their werewolf wiring that just doesn't get it. He is not property of the pack. He doesn't belong to them, he doesn't rank below them, or anything else like that. He's human. He wants to fit in, he doesn't want to be owned.

But, it has to be his fault, doesn't it? Some how, some way, this has to be his fault and there's nothing he can do about it. He cannot change. He will never fit in with them, no matter what he told the Pantera. He turns back around, blinking rapidly to force his tired eyes to focus on the computer screen even as he continues jotting down notes. 

"Holy shit!" He gasps, shoving himself away from his desk suddenly. His eyes are as wide as saucers, his hand lifted to shove his fingers against his trembling lips. He's trying not to be disgusted, but he is. So VERY much so! He averts his eyes quickly, sucking in deep, quivering breaths as he tries not to lose his damn mind. Because, seriously!? It's freaky enough that a damn panther wanted him, had apparently STALKED him before making her intentions known. And then wanted to -mate- with him and have babies. (That would, apparently, have rendered her unable to -ever- have children again.)

"Stiles." He jumps right up, off the chair and in trying to whirl around, nearly falls into his desk. If Derek's hands weren't wrapped around his biceps, he'd probably be pretty damn hurt at the moment.

"Damn it, Derek!" He angrily yanks his arms away, tripping over himself to put distance between him, the desk, and the irate werewolf staring at him with those intense, unreadable eyes. "This is NOT okay! Can't I just have some fucking PRIVACY for once!?" He barrels through the room until he falls onto the edge of his bed. He's trembling all over. His hands are pressed to his lips again, and he's struggling to breathe. 

Derek is already to the window when he hears it. That single hitch in Stiles' breathing. It's too deep, too wrong. He's back across the room in a split second. Kneeling in front of the human. One hand grabs him roughly by the shoulder, the other hand pressed tightly against the erratic beating of Stiles' heart. 

"Just breathe, Stiles. Breathe through it." He commands, trying to hide the note of panic in his voice. None of them like this. None of them are good with it. Stiles' panic attacks are a foe they cannot fight or out wit. They cannot protect their friend from this ailment and none of them are good with that fact. 

"8 3 4 0 1 3. Repeat after me." He demands, and Stiles looks up at him with wide, round, panicked eyes. 

"8 .. 3 4 .. 0 .... 1 3 .. I d-don't .. I don't un...derstand..." He struggles to speak, his quaking hand pressing hard against Derek's where it rests over his heart. Derek's other hand migrates from his shoulder to the nape of his neck. Finger tips drawing a steady, repetitive pattern to try and draw his attention.

"0 5 2 5 8. Repeat it." He demands again, watching as Stiles' features switch to a look of utter annoyance.

"0 .. 5 2 5 .... 8 ... what the hell?" He drawls out, his eyes widen after a moment when he realizes that he's breathing normal again. His heart already starting to settle into a normal beat again.

"That's it." Derek murmurs, his fingers slowing their caress until his hand is resting against the nape of his neck again. "It's hard for the brain to concentrate and panic at the same time." He shrugs his left shoulder, before he carefully peels his hands off of him and stands. He walks to settle rigidly in the computer chair, rubbing a hand down his features as he watches Stiles. Who is still a little curled into himself. One hand gripping the sheet under him tightly. 

"Thanks. Though, if you hadn't lurked and scared the shit out of me in the first place, it wouldn't have happened" He grits that out, though he doesn't glare at him like he wants to. Like he thinks he has a right to.

"If you hadn't bailed on the pack tonight, and then, what, shut your damn phone off, I wouldn't be -lurking-, Stiles." He doesn't grunt, growl or anything else. He just .. sighs the words, sounding so damn tired at the moment. In fact, he sounds almost like -he's- the one that just had the panic attack, and that cuts right through the teen. 

"I .." He sucks in a careful breath, and after a moment, lifts his gaze to watch Derek. Just .. staring at him, the way Derek usually stares at people. "I don't want to puppy pile tonight, Derek. This hasn't been about me. It's been about you guys. Scenting me, making sure the Pantera didn't leave anything behind, trying to make sure that I'm not leaving. And I get that, I do. But just .. not tonight." He runs his fingers through his hair, carefully pries his hand from the sheet beneath so that he can force himself to unfurl. 

Derek watches him silently. As usual, he gives nothing away in body language or facial expression, that might explain what he's actually thinking at the moment. He has taken the art of Stoicism and mastered it better than Zeno of Citium! He gives nothing away if he doesn't have to. And even then, the bulk of his truths are held close to the belt.

"And lets be truthful, Sourwolf. You would still be lurking, even if I hadn't shut my phone off. The -moment- you realized I wasn't actually coming tonight, you were already going to be headed over. My phone being off is just the excess excuse." Stiles points this out softly, slightly jittery as the last vestiges of adrenaline burning away after the panic attack finish with him. "Just like the thought that I might want to leave had more impact .. than the fact the Pantera thought Beacon Hills to be -my- territory .. and not yours, the Alpha's." His voice drops even lower, though he knows Derek will hear him. His gaze drops to the floor, close to his feet. As he waits, patiently, for whatever is going to happen. For whatever angry, or worse, indifferent words his friend is going to throw at him. 

Several minutes pass without anything, and he finally lifts his gaze. To find his chair empty, window still open. And his desk drawer hanging wide open, too. He frowns darkly and lunges at the drawer, scowling. And then out and out snarling when he sees that Gisila's number is gone .. and his phone is sitting on top of his desk.

With trembling fingers, he pulls up his contact list ... and isn't the least bit surprised to find that her number has been deleted from his phone as well. He throws it at his bed, running to his window. 

"FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!" He screams those three words out of his window, too infuriated to stop and think about his neighbors or the earful his Dad is going to get for his bad behavior. He's hurting too deep inside for that to matter. He turns and collapses onto the chair again, his head in his hands.

He feels torn down the middle. Part of him now wishing he -had- gone with Gisila, rather than stay here with an asshole Alpha, a friend that basically threw their friendship out the window for a girl, and a pack that think they own him. Even if Gisila had been a panther. And even if he feels sick to his stomach after finding out that the brilliant, pretty babies she wanted so much would've hollowed her out and never allowed her to have more kids. THAT was the kind of freaky shit he could've gone his entire life without knowing!

But still, in this moment, with anger flowing hot and heavy through him, he is having second thoughts. Not that it means anything, since Derek took away any means of tracking Gisila that he had. Bastard.


	2. Kardunn

"No." 

"Please."

"No."

"But .. please?"

"No."

"PRETTY PLEASE?!?" 

".. you're not that pretty, so still, NO." 

The pack is currently sitting in a diner, crowded around several tables pushed together. At one end, Derek is staring angrily at a plate of pie that he refuses to touch. At the other end of the combined tables, of course, Stiles sits. Apparently, it was decided that the best way to get through the public meal without a scene, was to put the two stubborn idjits at opposite ends of the group. Which had failed to work like a charm, because of COURSE they would find a way to fight even when they're not in proper distance of one another!

"Screw you, I am pretty enough." Stiles scowls, his arms snapping up to cross over himself as he slouches down in his seat. Every one, including Stiles, misses the faint smile Derek gets as he watches the teen pout. "Stop being a jackhole and just do it!" Stiles throws the words from his pouting lips as if they are actual barbs and arrows, and Derek cannot help the epic eye roll of annoyance he gives. 

"God .. fine!" He finally snaps, yanking his fork up so hard that the metal may twist a little in his palm. If those with preternatural hearing are aware of the sound, they don't acknowledge it. Smart move on their part. He snaps the fork down into the piece of buttermilk pie, furiously yanks a portion off and shovels it into his mouth. Intent on chewing as wrathfully as he can. 

Intent, however, is not always what happens! Because the moment the sour sweet pie hits his tongue, he knows that Stiles has won. He hates him a little for this pointless, stupid, ridiculous victory. He chews slowly and swallows, shoving the fork back in the pie.

"... shut up, Stiles." He warns, adding as much heat, anger, and weight behind those words as he can before he grabs up the plate and begins to shovel the pie into his mouth. Barely managing not to make horrible, terrible, revealing sounds of contentment as he eats. Of course, Stiles manages to remain silent, but it doesn't stop him from pumping his fist in the air in victory, and then high-fiving Scott, the little traitor!

"Haha! Next time, just listen to him, Derek." Scott offers this sage bit of wisdom, though he jumps and pushes heavier against his seat when Derek growls at him. From around the fork. Sticking out of his mouth. Like a DORK! 

"Rude!" Stiles finally manages to break his speech embargo, having managed a full three minutes of silence. He glares at Derek, before he stands and heads toward the end of the table. Straight for the sourwolf that is still wolfing (haha!) down his piece of pie. "But for real, sourwolf. Just save us all some time, and believe me on the next one." He yanks up the check where it had been settled by the Alpha and turns on his heel to head toward the counter. 

The entire, short walk, he can feel Derek's angry gaze following him. Partially because he turned out to be right, and partially because Stiles is paying. Not that the teen cares one way or the other. He slides the ticket over to the woman at the register, motioning toward something behind her. She turns and disappears into the kitchen, coming back a few minutes later with a cardboard box. 

"Isaac!" He calls out to the pack, the puppy bounding up happily, grinning sweetly at Stiles. "Do me a favor, okay?" He reaches up, his hand sliding along Isaac's neck, to the nape. Fingers hooking gently into the flesh to draw Isaac down close enough that he can whisper soft enough, none of the rest of the pack will hear. "Stick this in the car when you head out with Derek, okay?" He pecks a kiss to Isaac's cheek before he pulls back, handing the cardboard box off. The Puppy practically prances in place, nodding enthusiastically before he turns and darts out the door. Stiles turns in enough time to grab the change held out to him, before he saunters back to the table. 

"Well, that's that, then. It was a lovely time. Freakin' -told- you about the pie, jackhole. So, who's riding with me?" He pulls his keys from his pocket, spinning them along his pointer finger as he looks from person to person. Of course, Scott jumps up and moves to his side. Danny stands, stretches, and saunters over as well. "Good day to you all." Stiles gives a mock bow, not all that surprised when Jackson tosses a wadded up napkin at him. Or when Danny plucks it from the air before it can hit him, and tosses it back. Stiles smirks wickedly and turns, heading out of the diner with his two friends.

"Who would've thought .. the big bad alpha likes buttermilk pie!" Scott giggles, and Stiles can't help grinning. 

"Oh man, I -knew- he would! It's basically him in pie form!" Stiles snickers, and even Danny has to laugh at that one. "Anyway, I had Isaac sneak a pie into the Camaro. Here's hoping he doesn't childishly throw it out the window or something." The three of them dissolve into laughter as they climb into Stiles' jeep.

"Oh come on, he's going to know you bought it for him, Stiles. I bet it goes straight into his room so no one else gets any." Danny states matter-of-factly, drawing a quirked, questioning brow from Stiles. Danny just shakes his head, refusing to comment any further.

"So, still not coming tonight?" Scott asks from the passenger seat, his eyes already big, watery, and pleading. But tonight, Stiles is immune to those eyes. Like, totally fucking IMMUNE! He snorts and wheels the jeep out of it's parking space, nodding his head.

"Damn straight, buddy boy! Tonight is -me- time. You guys can survive without me." He flashes his best grin, missing the incredulous look shared between Danny and Scott.

"That's what you think." Danny grumbles as he leans against his door. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Stiles shoots back, Danny wincing when he realizes that he hadn't spoken low enough for Stiles to miss his words. Damn. He clears his throat, looking out the window, rather than toward the front seat.

"Well, it's just that ...." Danny sucks in a deep breath, wishing that Scott would rescue him, but knowing better than that. "We don't, really. Survive without you." He squirms a little, his hand wrapping around the strap of his seat belt to give him something to hold on to. "It's never as much fun without you, Stiles. Jackson is more of an asshole, even Lydia can't rein him in. Erica and Isaac are both restless. And Derek ..." He trails off, finally glancing toward the front seat. When he meets Scott's gaze and receives a quick shake of his head, he clams up.

"Let me guess; Derek is even more of an asshole because he has to worry about what kind of trouble I've gotten myself into. Or he's trying not to be a big creepy creeper by jumping in my window and causing me to have a panic attack. Or stealing and erasing phone numbers!" He's fairly ranting now, hands bone white on the steering wheel as he takes them off toward the Hale house. 

He looks over in just enough time to see the surprised, uneasy looks on his friend's faces, and he realizes all of what he has said.

"So, yeah ... he, uhm .. stole Gisila's phone number and erased it from my phone. Because apparently, I'm not allowed to talk to her in any way, shape, form, or fashion. Because -he- says so." He growls the word he, his eyes hooded heavily as he struggles to fight off the anger the Alpha inspires in him. 

Danny and Scott exchange knowing glances, though neither of them say anything. After all, what -could- they say? Dude, there's probably a -reason- he doesn't want you talking to the supernatural creature that wanted to steal you away? Or hey, maybe if you stopped long enough to -think- about the situation, you might realize Derek has a vested, personal interest in you not leaving? 

Instead, the occupants of the vehicle lapse into a strained silence for the rest of the time it takes to drop Danny and Scott off at the end of the road leading to Hale house. Once they are out, he tears off, back toward his home, stewing in the anger he still hasn't managed to let go of.

* * *

The 'Night of Stiles' was supposed to consist of Adderall, research to update his mythical/supernatural database, lots of junk food, and various video games. Yeah, not so much. He really should've expected this. Well, not -this- specifically, but -something- that would get in the way of him having a bit of down time. Though, the only upside? It isn't -werewolf business- that drags him away from his evening. It's run of the mill, every day, help your neighbor kind of problems.

About an hour and a half after night fell, there's a knock at the door. That in and of itself is unusual. Because Dad never gets visitors, and anyone that would actually bother coming to see him? Yeah, that's what his window is for, apparently. So, the knock is enough to throw him off. To put him on edge and leave him feeling disoriented. 

"Stiles!" Dad's voice causes him to slide right out of his seat and fall flat on his face in his desperation to get downstairs and find out what's going on. He pushes himself clumsily to his feet and rushes down the stairs. "You okay?" His Dad prompts softly at the rumpled state that he's in, and he can just nod curtly. 

"Yeah. What's up? Oh! Hello, Mrs. Jennings." He walks forward and hugs the older woman that's standing in front of the open door. She's roughly in her mid 80's with sharp, serpentine eyes that see everything. He has faced nearly a dozen scoldings from his Dad due to the older woman. But he tries not to hold it against her. 

"Stiles." There is a subtle sharpness to the way she speaks his name, because she seems to consider it a personal insult that she has never been allowed to know his true name. He almost expects her to cluck every time she is 'forced' to use it. "Laylei got away again." She makes the statement so matter of fact. It -almost- sounds as if she is implying that he should -know- the pesky dog got out, as if it is somehow -his- fault and he should've rectified that by now! His hands snake behind his back, fingers interlocking to try and fight down the anger inside of him. 

He had his entire night planned out in a way that would be mostly satisfactory for a bit of down time, and now this?? A foreseeable future of romping through the mucky night, calling after an annoying little ankle biter that doesn't want to be back home anyhow. Not that he can blame the poor dog! Who would want to put up with this clucking, judging monstrosity??

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Jennings. I didn't realize you still had her." And yeah, okay, so it's passive aggressive rude, but whatever! He doesn't have the time or the inclination for this! Her dog is -not- his responsibility. He pries one hand free of the other, so that he can reach up and rub one palm down his face because he can already feel Dad's angry, disappointed gaze burning a hole in the side of his head. "Just give me a minute and I'll go look for her." He drawls out with false sweetness, even manages to slap on a surprisingly effective fake smile before he turns and heads upstairs. 

Once in his room, he silently screams a long list of expletives, every curse he can think of, right down to insulting her lineage, not that he knows the first thing about it. But he is angry. He is in pain. With a final, silent curse, he yanks up his red hoodie and slips it on, pulling the hood up. He grabs his car keys, though he has no intention of actually taking the jeep, he just prefers having them in his pocket. 

He settles, pulling his socks and shoes on, going for his trainers in case he has to run after the little twit.

"Stiles!" Dad's voice is bordering on angry, as if Stiles is intentionally keeping the old hag waiting rather than doing everything he can to get ready to go do something that isn't his responsibility at -all-. He growls and stomps toward his door, the sudden interruption causing him to forget the -one- thing he -really- should've picked up to take with him; his cell phone. 

"I'll start out by where I found her last time, Mrs. Jennings."

"Good. You better find her quicker than you did last time, Stiles. It's far too cold for her to be out too long." He sucks in a deep, trembled breath, literally bites the end of his tongue to keep from telling the older woman off. To keep from pointing out that rather than be a bitch and -blame him- for her mutt getting out, -she- could go and try and find it. Instead, he shoulders past her without a word, glancing over his shoulder to see his Dad looking angry ... but for once, not at him.

"Mrs. Jennings .. that is -not- the way to talk to my son. He's taking time out of his own evening to go look for your dog. You will not speak to him that way again, I don't care how old you are." Stiles smiles. Like a genuine, beaming smile, as he takes off into the night.

* * *

Four hours, nineteen minutes and twenty-three seconds ... and no dog. A scraped knee, a slightly swollen ankle, and splinters in his hand. That is all he has to show for several hours traipsing about the woods in search of a dog that doesn't want to go home. And he -really- can't blame it. 

Who would want to go home to that pushy, controlling witch?! 

He huffs softly, watching as his warm breath collides with the cool air and creates an ephemeral vapor that curls up before dissipating. His eyes close tightly for a moment.

"Laylei, if you don't get your furry little behind out here, I'm going to leave you to freeze to death!" He screams into the otherwise silent night, wincing when he feels his foot hit another root wrong. He falls face first toward the ground, whimpering in pain when his splinter covered hand breaks his fall against the forest floor. He remains there, head bowed, mouth compressed into a tight white line of anger. 

He can feel the beginnings of tears prickling the backs of his eyes, and he has no idea why he's about to cry. Just knows that he hates himself for it. Because this is -somehow- his life. 

With grim determination, he pushes himself to his feet. Wobbles momentarily, but manages to remain standing this time. His head is angled down though, watching his every step so that he can carefully pass over the root system without tripping again. One more fall to the ground, and he's pretty sure he's going to curl up into a little ball and freeze to death crying. Because no way will he be able to leave this earth with a shred of dignity left.

He steps wrong almost immediately, his bad ankle twinging and nearly drawing a cry of pain from him. He clamps his jaws tightly, shoves his uninjured palm against his mouth to hold the sounds at bay. This time, thankfully, he manages not to fall or hurt himself further. Manages to continue limping forward, breathing through his pain. 

"I hate you. Both of you. So fucking much." He snarls the words into his own palm, tears prickling his eyes again. This time, though, he cannot hold them back. He lets them fall, frustrating himself further when they create a foggy veil that obscures part of his vision. Another snarl escapes, palm pressing tighter to his mouth for a moment, the tears finally stopping.

The cold seeps deeper and deeper. He can feel his lips still pressed to his palm. The chill unfurling through his limbs and he really wishes he were back home. Warm in his room, staring at the computer screen, cataloging the different kinds of supernatural creatures they may run into.

Anything is better than limping through the forest. 

"RRRRAWWWRRR!!" Well .. until he hears that. He has about three seconds for his heart to leap somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, for fear to blanket every one of his senses, before he comes face to face with a mountain lion. Somewhere in the back of his tired, emotionally exhausted mind, he has the ability to latch onto the irony of this situation. After all the suggestions to his Dad that mountain lions were responsible for werewolf kills .. and he's going to be taken out by an -actual- one!

"Hi there, Mr. Mountain Lion, sir. Now, I know what this looks like." Because even in the face of possible death by wild animal, he can't shut up. "It looks like an easy, free meal, right? But come on, take one look at me! I'm scrawny and pasty and totally not more than, like, a mouthful! It would be way too much work, for no payoff what so ever!" He backs up a few steps, his hands, trembling, held out in front of him. As if that is going to do -anything- to protect him when the animal decides to pounce and gut. "I know I've blamed a -lot- on your kind lately and I'm legit sorry about that, but maybe you could let bygones be bygones and -not- eat me, yeah?" His eyes dart around wildly, his heart beating so fast that he knows he's close to having a panic attack. Again.

"P-please .. just ... god, please, someone .. something ... help ..." The creature roars again, and Stiles feels his legs give way. He knows there would be no use in running. The thing will get him no matter what. He throws his hands up to shield his face, draws in a deep breath and holds it as he waits for the inevitable.

Which doesn't come. Because he hears something that sounds suspiciously like a horse neighing, followed by an inhuman sound of pain. His hands sink away from his face, his eyes snapping open to take in the bizarre scene in front of him! And yeah, bizarre is the -ONLY- word he can think of to describe it! 

A Unicorn. An honest to god, single horn freakin' UNICORN is charging the mountain lion, ripping into it over and over with it's spiral horn, stomping it with it's large hooves. It stabs it in the flank, rips through it's side, and eventually impales it through the heart. And all he can do is stand there. Staring. Disgusted but also in awe. Because, you know, UNICORN!!

"I ... how ..." He finds himself muttering in stilted tones, carefully climbing to his feet with a hiss of pain as he watches the Unicorn stand over it's kill. Hoof stomping the ground next to the lifeless carcass before it turns it's attention toward Stiles. He should run, right? Or, is it like the lion, he should simply submit to whatever Fate has in store for him, because no way he can outrun a UNICORN. There is no chance in heaven or hell that he will stop seeing the word Unicorn completely capitalized in his mind, because, you know, reasons. 

"You just .. did you just -save- me?" He gasps, mouth falling agape as he stares at the mythical creature. It's snow white coat is speckled red, but for some reason, the creature isn't exuding any kind of threat. Stiles finds that he doesn't fear it. In fact, he finds himself filled with a certain sense of peace. He has about half a minute to remember that the feeling is similar to the one that Gisila's breath caused before the Unicorn is right in front of him.

Holding his breath, keeping every inch of himself still save his dominant arm, he reaches out toward the beast. The tips of his fingers brush it's mane, eyes widening in fascination at the soft, silky texture of it. Even when he feels the gummy stickiness of blood drying there, it does nothing to stymie the overwhelming sense of AWE he feels. He is carding his fingers through the mane of a mythical creature that is drawn to pure goodness. There are no words for how this experience makes him feel!

"Wow .. I .. a UNICORN saved my life. How the hell is that even -possible-!? I mean, yeah, there are supernatural and mythical creatures, a fact I am -well- aware of, but come on?? A damn UNICORN saved me from a mountain lion?! How is this my life??" He lets out a half hysterical laugh that becomes a yelp of surprise when the unicorn nudges his shoulder with it's mouth. He starts to frown, trying to figure out what it wants, trying to understand why it keeps pushing and pushing. Until his back collides with the nearest tree. He glances around, then back, jumping when the unicorn kneels, seeming to wait patiently.

"Oh. Right." He draws on his meager knowledge of unicorns .. and then blushes a bright red. "Oh, come on! I am -NOT- a maiden, dude!" He whines softly but is still letting himself carefully inch down the trunk of the tree until he's sitting. He pulls his hood up, breathing out a vaporous breath before he awkwardly holds his arms out. Huh, this seems kind of familiar. It's the open armed motion he usually makes when Isaac, Scott, or Erica want to cuddle. He tries to ignore that fact, waiting patiently. Eventually, the Unicorn has managed to settle comfortably on it's side, it's head coming to rest tenderly against the still rapid beat of his heart. He wraps one arm around it's neck, while his free hand begins to card through it's mane once more. After another awkward moment, he tilts his head so that his temple rests against it's gore covered horn.

Deep down, he knows this should freak him out -so- badly. Like, major levels of screaming, crying, and cursing his existence, but it doesn't. Yes, this is the strangest thing he has ever had happen, but he has a feeling it will somehow be topped in the future. So fucked up! 

"And -this- is how I'm going to spend my night. Because of course it is! I skip out on a Pack meeting to spend some quality -me- time but end up having to go out and look for my bitchy neighbors run away dog. And do I -find- said dog? No, of course not! Instead, I find a hungry mountain lion that is then skewered by a fucking unicorn. That is now cuddling me." He breathes another sharp breath, watching the vapor curl, though he feels surprisingly warm with the creature curled against him. "I don't supposed there's some chance that I'm going to wake up and this is all a fever dream? Like, maybe I actually knocked myself out when I fell at some point, and I'm going to wake up half frozen? Because that would totally make more sense. Than this." He huffs, his head turning, and he -knows- that he has been around werewolves way too long when his first thought is to sniff the unicorn.

And holy hell, it smells -awesome-! 100 times better than Gisila had and her breath was like aromatic crack or something! But the unicorn smells like summer and sunshine and spice and, literally, everything nice! He draws in another deep breath and sags under the weight of this pure, beautiful, mythical creature curled into him.

Okay, so if he is completely honest with himself, and -only- himself, this is pretty much the coolest thing ever. He is cuddling a UNICORN that saved his life! He has no clue how this happened, and for once, even his ADHD mind isn't demanding he ask questions or research what might have brought such a creature to Beacon Hills. He doesn't care. It saved him, it some how deems him -worthy- and that fills him with a kind of warmth and happiness he hasn't felt since his Mom was alive.

"... okay, every thing aside, this is stupidly, insanely awesome! I mean, you totally saved my life! I don't know where you came from, or why you're here, but you totally chose to -save- me and that has to mean something, right??" He turns until his mouth is pressed firmly against the base of the creature's horn, trying to muffle the near hysterical giggle that bubbles up and out of him. "A fucking Unicorn found me worthy! I haven't been this .. this happy .. since before my Mom died." He blinks back a fresh wave of tears, sniffling softly as he breathes in it's scent again. Even the faint hint of animal blood isn't enough to dampen the wonderful scents. 

"What ... the FUCK!?" The sudden interjection of a very familiar voice causes Stiles to jump in surprise. His features are torn between a mortified blush and intense anger. Because he's both embarrassed and pissed to be caught curled under a unicorn's head .. by Jackson fucking Whittemore of all people. "STILES?!" The voice breaks and squeaks and holy hell, but Stiles has -never- heard Jackson sound so .. off. Like something has broken inside of him and he has no idea how he's supposed to react. There -may- even be a hint of jealousy in there, but Stiles is half way to convincing himself that he's just hearing things. "Is that ... a .. a UNICORN?!" His voice creaks and cracks on the word Unicorn, and it seems to spur the creature into action.

Because it peels itself off of Stiles chest, manages to gain it's footing in moments, and is screeching threateningly in Jackson's direction. Stamping it's hooves and lowering it's blood speckled horn. Oh shit! Having seen what the thing did to a mountain lion, he knows it can tear the other teen apart. While they are not strictly friends, they are Pack and that's all it takes for Stiles to rush forward. 

For the first time, like -ever-, he is the one putting himself in front of Jackson as if -he- is the werewolf and Jackson the poor, useless, fragile human. He curls an arm around the werewolf, and is actually surprised beyond words when he feels Jackson curling into him. Literally pushing against Stiles' back, trembling, and -letting- Stiles protect him.

"Dude, seriously?!" Stiles gasps, and when the Unicorn tosses it's mane and advances a few steps, Jackson actually shoves his face against the nape of Stiles' neck. And whimpers in fear. "Back! This is Jackson .. he's not a threat. He's pack. A friend." Stiles enunciates every word carefully, his arm still remaining outstretched in a protective way. His other hand lifts, fingers stretched out toward the creature. It shakes it's form one more time before it walks right up and butts its head against his finger tips. Calmed, just like that.

"Holy shit!" 

"What the actual fuck!?" 

"Is that a UNICORN!?" 

"STILES!" 

A chorus of voices from his pack rings out, but of course, it is the total irritation and ANGER that Derek manages to say his name with, that catches his attention.

"Everyone calm the fuck down and stay still!" Stiles grits out as the unicorn lets out a threatening neigh and puts itself between Stiles and the rest of the pack.

"... Jackson! Are you -nuzzling- Stiles!?" Danny blurts out, mouth hanging open in surprise.

"Seriously!? Stiles is being protected by a -UNICORN- of LEGEND, and THAT is what you are surprised by!?" Scott actually squeaks that, mouth hanging open in surprise. And sure enough, Stiles is still very much aware of Jackson nuzzling into the nape of his neck from behind. Practically mashed up against his back. At any moment, they are going to start breathing as one and he's pretty sure he will pass out if that happens. 

"SHUT. UP." He blinks, looking around, expecting everyone to be staring at Derek for using his Alpha snarl to shut everyone down. Every eye in the clearing, including the Unicorn's, are trained on him. Oh shit. The brooks no argument order had come from -him- .. and every one seems to have listened. Right, okay. He can roll with this. Totally. "Do. Not. MOVE." Another slow, deliberate use of his growly, authoritative voice, and even Jackson is still. No longer nuzzling against him or anything.

Stiles takes a careful step forward, his hand still extended toward the beautiful, white creature. He flicks his tongue across his bottom lip, an insanely nervous gesture despite the confidence with which he had just been speaking. 

"Come on, lovey." His voice has changed. Softened and yet swelled until it seems as if every word bounces off every tree and reverberated back to them. Becomes a coaxing, sweet sound that seems to envelope the unicorn and bring it to him. Almost instantly. "There you are." He murmurs. Trembling, fingers quaking, he presses his palms to the creature's cheeks, grinning as it moves close enough that Stiles can turn his head. Press his cheek against the gore crusted horn that had saved his life. "You came because I called, didn't you?" He whispers, his voice in awe of that powerful truth. He had begged for someone or -something- to save him, and a Unicorn came to his rescue. 

Any moment he has questioned his worth, his usefulness, his very -existence- has been obliterated by this. He is a clean slate. Because the purest, most magical creature -ever- saved him. 

"Thank you for saving me. For coming when no one else could." He breathes those words against the horn, laughing almost hysterically for a moment. Before he carefully pulls back, without dropping his hands. Instead, he guides the unicorn's face around, so that it's expressive, fierce gaze is settled on the others. "This is my pack. These are my friends, my family. They will protect me now. It's time for you to go, before something bad happens to you." He doesn't think. Simply allows instinct to take over. He leans forward and presses a kiss to the creatures forehead, laughing softly when it makes a happy, content sound.

Before pulling back and shaking out it's mane. It then levels the Pack with a look that could be considered nothing short of threatening, before rushing from the area in a quick gait.

"... I think that thing just -threatened- us. On Stiles' behalf." Erica breathes out in awe, glancing quickly between Stiles and where the creature left.

"Hell -YEAH- it did! I summoned a fucking -UNICORN- to protect me! Marvel, bitches!" He pumps his fists into the air in triumph, practically prancing in a circle. For all of three seconds. Because in the very next moment, he is face first on the ground, a wolfed out Jackson straddling him from behind. Rutting against him slightly, mouth attacking every inch of Stiles' neck he can get to. Growling, snuffling, drooling and coming so close to sinking his fangs in, that Stiles snarls angrily.

"What the fuck, Jackson??" Stiles growls as he tries to throw the teen off. However, it takes Derek, Scott, Danny, and Isaac to physically pry Jackson off. Who looks wild and feral, snarling and still trying to fight his way back to him. 

"It. CAN'T. HAVE YOU!!" Jackson throws his head back and howls. Freakin' cliche HOWLS in angst and desperation before Derek rolls his eyes and punches the poor pup's lights out. Stiles watches in slack-jawed surprise as Jackson crumples to the ground. 

"Isaac, Danny, get Jackson back. Chain him up." Derek grunts out orders, taking control of the situation, though his eyes don't leave Stiles. "The rest of you, go home." Those eyes are dark, burning ember red as he stares at him. "Stiles." He grunts, and for once, the teen has no idea what emotion is actually reflected in it. 

"I was just trying to find Mrs. Jennings stupid dog, okay! She was being bitchy and rude and Dad was expecting me to, and then I got out here and a freakin' MOUNTAIN LION was preparing to attack." Stiles sucks in a trembled breath, his eyes widening. He had come so close to dying, again. And it wasn't supernatural or noble. He wasn't risking his life in the pursuit of saving his friends or facing down impossible odds. A natural-born animal had come close to ending him. "Fuck! I, uhm .. I thought it was gonna kill me. After all those false mountain lion stories, a real one was going to off me and I had no idea what to do. What to say! I .. I asked someone .. something .. to help me." He's twitching now. 

His entire body is vibrating like a live wire. He can feel the 'electrical' pulses humming under his skin. The vibrato that sings in his blood and bites at his muscles. His legs skip and jump, his hands shudder and bounce against his thighs. He can't even look Derek in his Alpha glowing eyes. He just barells on. Maybe if he gets through this, maybe if the words become real and tangible he won't sacrifice himself at the feet of the truth, won't have to deal with the fact that he had come so close. Again.

"I was waiting .. right there." He doesn't point. Nothing so obvious and grandiose. He kinda twitches his shoulder in the direction of the piece of ground he thought would be the sight of his gruesome death. Even without being able to see Derek's reaction, he instinctively knows that the Alpha's eyes stray to that spot. How could they not? "For it to maul me. Maim me to death. I was on my knees, hands thrown up as if they could do a damn thing." He exhales a series of shaky breaths, knows that Derek can hear the uneven staccato of his heart and wonders if he's going to have to suffer the last bit of indignity by breaking down into another panic attack. 

"And then it didn't. I heard sound, and when I looked up, it .. it was just -there-. Stomping and ripping the mountain lion -apart-. Like .. fuck, I don't know, like it had a personal vendetta against the animal and wasn't going to be satisfied until it was a wet, gory smear on the ground." His breath hitches, comes out in a hysterical bubble as he tries to get through this. "A Unicorn -saved- me, Derek. After I asked for help, a freakin' mythical creature showed up out of nowhere. And then it reminded me of you!" Another hysterical bubble, his palms suddenly shoving against his mouth. He cries out in pain when his lips snag on several splinters, the taste and scent of blood making him want to gag.

"Stiles." His name is soft, and the next thing he knows, Derek is right there. Warm, imposing, and concerned. That last part definitely short circuits a part of Stiles' brain. The feel of his hand being collected in Derek's, soft and gentle one pretty much blows the remainder of his brain up. "How does a -unicorn- remind you of -me-." He prompts gruffly, lifting Stiles hand to assess the damage.

"Because it invaded my space and then insistently pushed me. Until my back collided with something." The unexpected words draw a laugh from the usually sour wolf, Derek blinking in surprise at his own reaction. 

"... that would do it." He deadpans. Before Stiles can comment on the words, he draws in a quick, shallow breath. Because Derek is fitting his lips over the flat of Stiles' palm. He feels the gentle pinch of teeth and then the faint burn of suction. As Derek literally nibbles and sucks the collection of splinters out of his skin.

"It ...uh...yeah, it...backed me into a tree and then knelt in front of me." Derek snickers against his skin, and Stiles feels heat flushing his cheeks, his stomach. Curling around his body until he feels light headed. "And when I sat down, it, uh ... put it's head on my heart. Laid it's horn ...... across .... my shoulder." He's starting to squirm. Honest to god, squirm. His thighs are sliding across one another, his knees knocking tenderly. His eyes have even gone slightly glassy and wide as Derek continues with his work. 

"It was about as stoic and silent as you, too." He adds for good measure. Hoping that if he manages to work some of his trademark snark into the conversation, the surreal factor will lessen. He's never that lucky. Because he feels another vibration against his palm. When sourwolf snickers into his skin. And then .... there is the hot, silken swirl of tongue across his flesh and he wonders how the hell he is still standing. 

"Hahah, asshole." Derek growls and then finally pulls back. Finally separates his lips from Stiles' body. But doesn't let go of the hand. No, because now he seems to be inspecting his work. Making sure there are no slivers of wood left behind.

"... honestly, I think this is the longest we've talked in a while." Stiles clears his throat, feels the sickly rumble of it in his chest as his heart begins to race. He is still close to panic and each breath is hitched, labored, and somehow sour in his own mouth. He watches as the Alpha lifts his eyes, glares up at him from beneath sooty lashes for a moment before speaking.

"And imagine; all it took was you nearly getting ripped to shreds and then being saved by a Unicorn." The hand still gripping the perimeter of his own tightens suddenly. Not painfully, but enough that the application of pressure is felt up and down his arm. "On that note .. the -hell- were you doing out here, Stiles?!" 

The witty banter is fully, completely, and painfully assassinated by the reemergence of Derek's default personality.

"I told you!" He tries to fill his voice with anger and authority, but it sounds raw and blunt, instead. "Mrs. Jennings' stupid dog got out and she practically made it sound like -my- fault, because she hates me for reasons I can't even begin to guess at! She was not going to take no for an answer!" He draws in a deep breath, prepared to continue rambling, but he doesn't get the chance. Because Derek's snarl has grown deeper, darker, and they are nearly nose to nose now. His hand clasped in that vice-like grip that he couldn't break if his life depended on it.

"Stiles!" This time, his name is such a grab-bag of mixed emotions, that the teen can't even begin to try and pick them apart. He's suddenly too exhausted to try and survive the whiplash of the Alpha's moods. "-WHAT- were you doing out -here-, Stiles!?" The same question, almost identically stated, and somehow, Derek expected a different answer!? 

"Fuck!" Stiles growls and reaches up. He wants to smack the werewolf, but he remembers the futility of that kind of action. He can still feel the dull ache at the memory. "I couldn't just walk away, go back to my room! Dad was there, and he was expecting me to go help, because I always have before, and I've put him through enough shit lately already!" He twists and curls his hand until he manages to pry it from the werewolf's grip. He'll have bruises within the next few hours, but he just can't summon the energy to care. He can barely keep his body in working order at the moment.

"... Isaac found the little mutt after he and Scott went looking for you, when you didn't answer your phone." Okay, the teen winces at that. Emotions chasing each other across his face; surprise, embarrassment, weariness. "Yeah, forgetting your phone was just stupid, Stiles. Go home and get some sleep." With that, the Alpha turns and runs from the area, Stiles staring after him long after he's gone.

"Fucking Mountain Lions. Fucking Panteras. Fucking WEREWOLVES and UNICORNS, and EVERYTHING mythical and supernatural!" He bellows those words to the darkened heavens above before he silently treks back to his jeep. Exhausted, limping, hurting in so many places, and ready for this day to just be -over-. 

By the time he has managed to drag himself into his room, he's so exhausted he falls face first into bed, heel-toes his shoes off, and falls into a deep, thankfully dreamless sleep.


	3. Bittern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Szymon is pronounced: SHI-mawn
> 
> How I picture Dr. Onuris: http://i.imgur.com/KVx7yhX.jpg

BOOM.

"No!" Stiles grounds the word out, stretching it so that it becomes three syllables. The fact that his head is currently pillowed on his arm, which is stretched across the computer desk beneath him, muffles the word slightly, but he knows the person currently invading his bedroom through his window hears it. Because there's a surprised grunt, a sudden thunk, and then the soft peal of growled curse words. "Stupid boom. Stupid headache. Stupid sound." These words are muffled enough by the deliberate twist of Stiles' head to forcefully stuff his mouth against his arm, that they are unintelligible.

"Stiles." Even without the annoyed, surprised muttering of his name, he knew it was Derek trying to make a stealthy entrance into his space. "How the hell did you know I was there?" The stoic, rough voice is slightly higher pitched than usual. The teen assumes it is because of being surprised and hitting his head. He takes a quiet, twisted comfort in the knowledge that he caught the Big Bad Alpha Wolf off guard. 

"The window squeaked, the temperature is cooler outside than in, and your leather jacket creaked when you were stretching inward." Stiles rattles the reasons off softly, his voice threaded with exhaustion. No matter how hard he tries, as of late, sleep remains just out of his reach. 

"... huh?" The uncharacteristic sound of dumbfounded disbelief rankles Stiles no end, but he's trying so hard to ignore it. He's still too tired to deal with werewolf BS at the moment.

"What do you -want-?" Stiles drawls the question out even as he pushes himself to an awkward sitting position. Though he doesn't turn away from his desk. Doesn't move in any way that he can actually look at the Alpha. 

"I .." There is an obvious struggle in the voice floating from behind him, and Stiles manages to launch a put upon sigh. He reaches out, deliberately, making sure that Derek can see his every movement, as he turns his laptop off. He waits a moment longer, and then leans back in his chair. Carefully laces his raw hand against his other, before resting them against his stomach. Waiting. Barely patient.

Derek gives a single, sharp shake of his head before his scowl deepens. 

"You're not answering your phone. -Again-. Scott has been trying to get in touch with you for an hour and a half, Isaac for thirty minutes, and Jackson has apparently called a dozen times. Oddly enough, to try and apologize." The thought of the asshole that still snarked and groused at Scott and Stiles wanting to apologize had taken Derek by surprise. And immediately put him on edge. The fact that no one had been able to reach Stiles had barreled him right off that edge and he is grumpy, grouchy, and all around in a foul mood now.

BOOM. 

".. and?" The almost bored tone with which Stiles acknowledges that influx of information is as good as a signed confession that Stiles is fully aware of this. Meaning his phone isn't misplaced or off; he has been intentionally ignoring the communications of his friends. His _**pack**_. There are very few things that have the power to ratchet the Alpha's anger up to atomic level. 

"AND!?" Derek can feel the sudden expansion of his claws. The elongating of his teeth and his lips compress in a tight, white line of agitation as he tries to control his change. He is -not- used to losing control in such a way, with such quick escalation. "Why ... are ... you ... avoiding .... _us_ " Each word is a labor of intent. They are bulky, his misshapen mouth finding it almost impossible to form each one. They taste chalky and electric on his tongue and he really wants to lash out at Stiles for that. 

"I'm not avoiding anyone." The words are not an excuse. They aren't executed with Stiles' usual warm, bantering voice. His mouth doesn't run away with him, he doesn't spout an endless stream of consciousness ramble or anything. Just spits out those groundbreaking, earth shattering words as if they are normal, plain as day.

Derek searches for a lie. Breathes deep of the human's scent, strains to the point of almost inducing a headache to try and clock the human's heart. No lie. Stiles is telling the full hearted truth. He isn't avoiding anyone. Derek is not reassured, however, because the little twerp is -clever- and that usually proves to be a pain in his ass.

"Then .. what are ... you ... avoiding Sti...les." It hurts. Physically, mentally, almost -spiritually-, to force those words out between his grinding jaws. For one searing second, horrible and dark, he thinks his jaws will grind so hard they might shatter and reform. All because of a quick witted, mouthy idiot that he wants to keep alive.

"Sleep. Life. Nightmares. Reality. But not -anyone-." He speaks slow, and careful. Derek wonders if it's meant to be mocking, or laced with some other Stiles'ese that he simply cannot grasp, but again .. it reads as perfect truth. Nothing to betray a lie.

"Jesus." The Alpha grunts the word under his breath, his limbs slowly unfurling. His jaw creaking and crowing as he works the hinges of it slowly. Until he's sure that he isn't going to grind them any further. "When was the last time you slept?" He is cautious in his concern. Inasmuch as he tries to ensure that no such thing shows through in his question. He has not actively tried to perpetuate the belief that he is heartless or that he has no use for anyone that ins't useful ... nor has he, however, tried to dissuade the belief. 

BOOM. BOOM.

"Three night ago." Still so matter-of-fact. So precise and to the point and Derek feels the change starting all over. Sharpening teeth, unsheathed claws, eyes probably glowing the color of mini suns. 

"You cannot .. keep .. doing .. such ... stupid things, Stiles!" By the last three words, he has forced himself to center. To calm. To be human as he should be. After a quick glance around, he collapses into the chair by the window, leaning forward until his elbows can dig into his own thighs. If all else fails, maybe the pain will keep him from out right losing it over the human. 

"Stupid? Really. That's what you're going to call a bodily aversion that I can in no way control?" His words are so deadpan, so droll, that they feel like a slap to the Alpha's senses. Stiles' scent doesn't change, his heart rate doesn't speed or slacken. He's just .. unbearably calm. Derek fights down the need to ask for as long as he can, but it doesn't work. In the end, the words blurt out without his permission. 

"How much Adderall have you taken today?" The moment the question has slipped out, Derek knows he has messed up. So, of course, his socially awkward, idiotic mind decides that the best thing to do is plow on quickly before Stiles has time to respond. "Because I really can't think of anything else that would make you act like this. No mile a minute speech, no jittering or jumping. What the fuck??" He sucks in a breath before plowing further into this disaster. "Whatever the hell is going on here, Stiles, you need to fix it. SOON. The Pack is losing it's -mind- without you! You're not .. you're not -you- anymore, and I can't think of anything worse!" Before the human can say anything, tear into him, offer more platitudes, or whatever else Derek assumes is coming, rather than the truth, he bails. He turns and leaps out of the window, snarling and grunting to himself. If he leaves, he won't have to deal with the gut wrenching pain of the teen, his packmate .... his _**friend**_ lying to him! 

The last time Derek had bailed, Stiles had screamed into the night. Had risked the ire of his nosy neighbors to shout his displeasure to the werewolf ears he knew could still hear him. He does not react that way, this night. He reaches up, presses his hands against his cheeks, slender fingers digging into the tender flesh just beneath his eyes where he can feel fever pooling.

"... there is a hell of a lot worse than not being -me- anymore, Derek." He doesn't scream the words, doesn't throw his head back and project to the heavens, or even to his ceiling. He speaks at the same level tone and volume he had used when the werewolf was still in the room. Because he knows ... just -KNOWS- that, despite the desperate escape, the Alpha is still close enough to hear what he has to say. 

After a long moment, he stands, walking toward the window, gripping the window seal for a moment. 

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM!

The world shifts on it's axis. Or ... at least ..... that's what it feels like to him. As if the entire planet has somehow shifted and changed under his feet. His hands grip tighter at the painted wood, his breath dragged in with dangerous imprecision as he struggles to keep himself standing. 

"... the hell ... is all .. that noise .. coming from!?" Each word is a struggled, breathless slur. The booms that he mistook as the aftershocks of a fading headache are now thrumming. A drum beating a dangerous, unstable percussion through his blood. Shockwaves of discordance that sends him crashing to the ground. 

".. St---es! S--les! STILES!!" Somewhere beyond true perception, he is aware of a frantic voice calling out to him. "Damn ... Stiles ... you can't ..." He tries to force his eyes open, his hands convulsing in front of him somewhere. "Please!!"

"Stop ... booming ..." He barely recognizes his own voice pleading before he sinks into total darkness.

* * *

He is swimming in and out of consciousness. One moment, he breeches the surface of wakefulness, and the next, he plunges beneath the darkness and feels lost. Floating, untethered, unsure what is going on. As he flows through this strange state, he dreams. Of muted brown feathers and eyes the color of emeralds. Of dark, russet skin and a smile so deep and full that it is almost spiritual.

Sometimes, he hears voices. Little snatches of conversation that have no context. 

".. how ... happened ... seizure .... unknown ..... won't ... understand ... please ... Stiles ..... please Stiles ... I'm sorry ..... forgive ..." An amalgamation of voices, layered into a symphony that is beautiful but confusing. Without context, they are meaningless. They frustrate and anger him, though he knows that he recognizes some of the voices. In fact, some small part of him, helplessly hopeful, thinks that the majority of apology and his name belong to Derek. He is sure that is wishful thinking after the idiocy the Alpha had displayed before he collapsed.

"... head ... throat ... " It takes a moment, but the teen recognizes the croaking rasp of his own voice. He tries to force his eyes open, but they feel almost as if they are matted shut. As if something heavy and foreign is keeping them bound.

"Try not to speak, Mr. Stilinski." The voice is surprisingly soft, homey in an appealing way. The kind of timbre, tone, and pitch that coaxes you into a state of near instant comfort. Relaxation. "I am Dr. Onuris." There is a faint accent to the voice, Stiles cannot place it. He just knows .. that it is comforting. Warm. 

"I --" A sudden swelling tightness in his chest causes the teen to let out a surprisingly loud, high-pitched whimper. There is the shrill shriek of a machine somewhere to his side, though he cannot distinguish what direction it is actually coming from, which side it originates. 

"Please, Mr. Stilinski, try not to talk. Your heart is still a little erratic." The tone is now chastising, though still warm and inviting. It reminds Stiles of a parent. The kind of parent that calls their kid a 'little fool' while smiling from ear to ear. "Please open your eyes, now." Stiles' eyes flash open, almost without his consent. 

And good lord, was -parent- really NOT the way to go! Because when he sees the features of the older man leaning over him ... -NOT- the way one thinks of a parent, outside of stories of Oedipus. His doctor looks young. Maybe just a few years older than Derek, with perfectly rounded and blunted features. And those eyes! Expressive and soft, the color of dark hot chocolate.

"Wow .. eyes ... I suddenly want a big mug of hot chocolate. No marshmallows. Because your eyes are just, wow ... like the color of hot chocolate, but warmer and inviting. Like, I could stare into your eyes and they would be warmer on a cold day than the afore mentioned drink." His words finally stumble to a halt, his heart monitor giving another beep and squeal as he fights down the sudden wave of embarrassment. Only he can be trapped in a hospital, still confused about what happened, hitting on his attractive male doctor. Because of course!

"I must say, you are my first client in some time that has actually complimented me, Mr. Stilinski." The teen blushes even deeper, wanting to turn over and bury his face in his pillow or something. However, when he realizes that the man is grinning, and actually seems flattered, he relaxes infinitely.

"Well, just calling it like I see it, Doc." The heart monitor has managed to calm, and Stiles feels relieved in so many ways. 

"That, I am sure of, Mr. Stilinski." 

"Stiles."

"Right. Stiles." Dr. Onuris smiles warmly and reaches down to adjust the stark white blanket covering him. "I am sure you are a little confused as to what has happened. You suffered a seizure." He pauses for a moment, waits for that information to sink in before he continues. "Your friend found you and brought you here. We ran a few tests, but as of yet, we are unsure what may have caused the ... episode." The final word is pushed from pursed lips with an air of distaste. As if the uttering of the word has left some foul flavor in his mouth and Stiles is, in -no- way, thinking how long it would take to wipe that flavor away with his own tongue. Possibly while his legs are wrapped around the older man's waist .. and they are both grinding and thrusting. Yeah, that thought hasn't crossed his mind at all. 

He winces, silently cursing the heart monitor that once more gives away the unsteady upbeat in his heart. Stupid freaking machines.

"Could you please tell me the last thing you remember, Stiles?" The words are so soft, spoken in earnest, and he finds himself biting the inside of his cheek as he struggles to remember.

"I .." It is a false start because his voice cracks, his throat tries to close and without his consent, his eyes snap closed.

"It's alright, Stiles. I will return soon." The hand that had adjusted his blanket is suddenly ghosting across the curve of his cheek. At least, he thinks that is what happens, but without seeing, he cannot be sure. Even as he sinks deeper into sleep, his mind is disputing what he thinks took place. Why would some hot, older guy want to touch him in such a way??

* * *

"... things have been off for a while now. I've been mixed up in some weird, important things and it all seems to be getting a little out of hand lately. So, I've been overwhelmed." Stiles sucks in a tired, aching breath, hearing the faint wheeze of his own voice. He asked Dr. Onuris for a glass of water, but had received nothing more than a sad, apologetic shake of his head. So, Stiles finds himself trying to power through the pain to finish speaking, eyes closed tight against the world around him.

"I, uhm ... I took a step back from everything, decided to take some me time, and one of my friends came over. To lecture me. For avoiding my friends, not sleeping enough, all of that jazz." He gives a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Man, I will never understand phrases like that! All that jazz. How did that even get started? And now that I've thought about that, I'm going to keep coming back to it, until I'm able to look the information up." He knows that the tangent is useless, but he cannot help it. His mind is hard pressed not to wander.

"I was having trouble concentrating on what he was saying because of a headache. It .. it sounded like ... like booming, in the distance. No matter what I did, it just kept ... booming." He shivers under his covers, trying to pull them closer but he can't move. He's so very weak. So ... very ..... tired. "The, uh ... the world tilted. Or, at least, that's what it felt like. Like the world tilted and everything went a little bit wonky, and the booming got so loud it was all I could hear." His eyes screw closed tighter. So much so, he can see nothing more than an explosion of color across the black canvas of his closed lids. "No, that's not true. Not really. I could hear Derek ... I think ... I think he was screaming my name, but I could only hear part of it. And then I woke up here." He tries to force his eyes open, but they refuse to budge. He swallows down a wave of panic, before going limp and compliant when he feels a hand squeeze his gently. 

"The shifting axis feeling was the beginning of a seizure, Stiles." Dr. Onuris sighs softly, a faint exhale from somewhere at the foot of the hospital bed. "The audio interruption is a collection of reactions to the episode and to falling. At the moment, tests are inconclusive as to the reason for this happening .. though, I have begun to form a few theories, my dear." My dear. There is a moderate chance those two words send a bit of a thrill down the teen's spine, and maybe, just -maybe-, cause his cheeks to heat through with a blush. 

"Theories, Doc? Hit me with your best shot .. and -totally- ignore that really outdated reference. Thanks." Again, why does the earth never open to swallow us, when we make fools of ourselves? Why does his mind not choose this oh so embarrassing moment to render him unconscious once more? -Anything- would have to be better than this fumbling attempt at .. whatever he is fumbling to attempt! Stiles isn't even sure he could call it flirting, per se. He's too tired and strung out to flirt, after all.

But then again, hearing the warm chuckle from the older man soothes over the embarrassment he's facing, causing warmth to radiate from his core. Calming him. Apparently, occasionally making an ass of himself can be a -good- thing. (Now, if he can just find a way to make Sourwolf admit that!) 

"To begin with, it seems you are under a lot of stress, Stiles." The words are so soft, and so full of genuine concern, that his breath hitches painfully for a moment. "Your body is weak, your spirit is flagging, and your will is shattering." The words continue in a concerned cadence that somehow disarms the excuses Stiles is already preparing to make. He just .. he can't. He's too tired, too exhausted to try and keep up the charade of hidden and half truths. "The state of your being is almost terrifying, Stiles, and I believe it is killing you. Sapping your will and leaving it hard for you to think and function properly." 

Is it sad, that his first thought is that the man is supernatural somehow? That of all the people he could have as a doctor, it would have to be a creature of some kind? It feels almost as if some sixth sense is screaming at him. Onuris has too much information. Too much sense in his theory for it to be anything other than the man tipping his hand. 

"... that sounds like a bit more than a theory, doc." He forces the words from his parched throat even as he feels the muscles quiver and struggle to expand. He needs to cough, but he feels ... he feels almost paralyzed. "So .. what -are- you?" His voice does not quake. His words do not shift, shuffle, stutter, or in any other way come across as distressed. Instead, they are simple and resigned. This is his life, now. Supernatural entities pushing the boundaries of his sanity as they find a way to brush against his existence. 

"I am your guide, your doctor and your friend, Stiles. I am Onuris .. he who brings back the distant one." The words crackle with electric undercurrents of power, and Stiles feels it like a physical touch. As if the words have somehow found the curve of his spine to trickle down every defined ridge. The words, the -voice- breaks him open, leaves him feeling raw and busted.

"For now, you should rest. I will return, Stiles .. for as long as I am needed."

* * *

"I'm dying." Stiles blurts those words out with such conviction of feeling that he almost doesn't recognize his own voice. Or maybe it's the fact that he's so calm and collected as he spits out words that are morbid and frankly terrifying. Or at least -should- be! He should be a quivering mass of frayed, sparking nerves right now! Or, he should be angry! Like, fully prepared to scream and rage at the big bully in the sky and demand that he do something; save him! After every thing he has done, after all of the times he has risked his life, he should have a free fucking pass to live! 

".. yes, Stiles, you are. I am sorry." Onuris speaks the words on a gentle, sad exhale and as much as Stiles wants to hate this newest supernatural creature for even being here, he can tell that he's telling the truth. That he is truly sorry for what Stiles is suffering through. And it simply aids in endearing him further to the attractive man. "It is, in fact, the reason I am here." The sound of shuffling tugs at his senses, but he still can't get his eyes to open. They feel leaden and immovable. 

"So, you are here .. specifically for me?" Those words should be incredulous. They should be baffled and disbelieving, but instead, they are just .. resigned. He knows, at this point. Like a sixth sense, that something about him has drawn this creature here and he still isn't even fully sure -what- the creature is.

"Yes, Stiles. I am. I really am." And now, Onuris sounds resigned as well. Maybe a little sad along with that concern and apology. Why did the man have any reason to be sad?? "I was called here by your pain and suffering. You are fading and it is my job .. to help you." The sadness increases ten fold. Stiles feels the gentle press of fingers along his ankle and he sucks in a soft, confused breath. 

"To help me fade!?" The words are ripped from a too dry throat, his hands fisting desperately into the cover blanketing him. He can feel the twist and turn of it, fingers nearly burning with the sensation as he tries to keep from panicking. Though he manages to observe that this time, there is no shrill whine of the heart monitor.

"What? No!" Onuris gasps, disgust and pain painting his words as the hand tightens on his ankle. "Gods, no, Stiles!! It is my job to -save- you, my dear." Slowly, his hands pry themselves free of the blanket. His eyes quiver beneath his closed lids and his breath is expelled in something that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

"I .. god, I know I shouldn't trust you! Every thing I've been through ... every thing that has happened, I know that it's dangerous to trust you. But, I just .. I just can't anymore, man. I just can't." Every next breath is a sob. A gasp. A tear-laden sound of pain that all means one thing; he is drowning on dry land and hasn't the first clue on how the hell he's supposed to save himself. 

"Oh, Szymon ... poor boy ..." His body jerks in surprise, shudders and quakes as he tries to process this.

"How .. how do you know .. my real ... name??" He forces the question from grinding jaws, his hands finding their way into the blanket again. For a single moment, he wishes he could wolf out. That he could grow claws and slash the bedding beneath him. Fray and rend the fabric until his mood is much improved.

"I told you, Szymon. I am here for -you-. Of course I know the name your Mother gave you." He feels the tentative, warm press of hands against his shoulders. Feels the phantom caress of fingers skating down his arms until they are carefully prying his fingers from the bedding. "Do you know what it means? Your name." Onuris begins to rub slow, soothing circles against his shoulders. "It means he who walks in both worlds. He who can be both open and closed at the same time, allowing him to tread the Mundane and Supernatural worlds." The words are meant to comfort, calm, or maybe just inform, but they feel like a weapon used against him. Stiles feels his heart stutter, his breathing shudder, and he tries to force his eyes open harder than ever before. They do not so much as flutter. 

"I ... but, that .. what??" No meaning. He cannot fathom meaning from his own stumbled words, but some how, Onuris understands. Of course he does.

"You are both introverted and extroverted, Stiles. You speak a mile a minute, pulling any and all attention to yourself, without actually revealing anything." Okay, so there is no way for Stiles to deny this. The description is so spot on, that there's nothing to say. "This makes you perfect for the life you live, Szymon. Your Mother always knew you would end up in the supernatural world, my dear." 

"HOW!? How the HELL could she know something like that!? She -DIED- before she could know a damn thing about how my life would turn out!" He screams. Shouts the words almost at the top of his lungs! Because there is no way this assbutt is bringing his poor, dead Mother into this! 

"... she -knew- you would run with wolves one day, Szymon ... because she was friends with Talia Hale." This time, all of the air leaves Stiles in a very pained whoosh. He feels dizzy and queasy, despite his eyes being closed. Despite being prone on a bed. The earth is trying to shift again. The axis spin off course. "You are a blessing, my dear, no matter what you may think." 

His world is falling into chaos. His thoughts, his memories, his desires, all shattering into diamond dust and fractured shards that clog his throat, claw at his mind. 

"All will be alright, Stiles. Rest." He feels the phantom caress of lips across his forehead and he exhales silently.

* * *

"Do .. do I really have to do this?" Stiles is sitting up on the side of his bed, hands clenched in trembling fists against his clothed thighs. 

Onuris has changed. He is no longer clad in his doctor get up, but dressed as an average man. Tight jeans and a thin lavender sweater with pristine white and ebon trim, with big white buttons. Stiles licks at his lips, resisting the urge to unfurl a fist long enough to run fingers down the lavender material. He has a feeling it would be warm, slightly fuzzy and basically perfect to the touch.

"Yes, Szymon. It will help in so many ways." The man hesitates for a moment, glancing between the bed and the rest of the room.

"Why hasn't anyone come to visit me? All I see is you." Onuris snaps his gaze back toward the teen, a brow raised in a perfect imitation of Derek Hale. So much so that it makes his chest clench a little, because he hasn't seen Derek the entire time he's been in this godforsaken place! In truth, he hasn't seen -anyone-. Not even his Dad has been by, and that speaks volumes. Shoves him toward the precipice of belief that he really doesn't matter. Maybe he's supposed to fade, after all.

"They have been here, Stiles. Of course they have." Onuris reaches out, finger tips gently brushing across his left shoulder before squeezing it tenderly. 

".. of course they have. I'm still asleep. You're inside my head." The teen gives a bit of a bitter laugh, his eyes closing tightly for a moment. "Because of -course- I would be seeing you in my head. You're real, because I know that's true. I can feel you, even if it's all in my mind. But I gave you form, didn't I?" He licks his lips again, looking up, into the warm chocolate colored eyes full of compassion and fondness. "You look like this .. because I want you to." It doesn't surprise him as much as he thinks it should, that he would conjure a gorgeous, baby-faced older man for the form of some ancient spirit guide or whatever Onuris is.

"You are so very bright, Szymon. Impressive beyond words." He feels himself blushing. Or, at least, the dream-version of him is blushing profusely. Because he's thinking about how hot this guy is, while the guy is giving him so many wonderful, delicious compliments. Yeah ... there has to be a lengthy name for this particular psychosis, he's sure. "I must say, I am amazed by your imagination and the form you have conjured for me." The man laughs. It's deep, booming, velvety and gravelly and it is basically what he thinks Derek would sound like, if his voice was not the remnant of fire and ash. Of bone dust and ghosts. 

"Not what you expected, I take it?" 

"Actually, no. I figured ... well, female, to be sure. Somewhere between strawberry blond and an hourglass figure." A brow shoots up, and Stiles finds himself chortling softly in amusement. Yeah, he can see why the creature expected to look more like Lydia Martin than the tempting man he is currently appearing as. The teen clears his throat, reaches up to run his fingers across his scalp as he manages to meet Onuris' gaze.

"Nah, there's only one strawberry blond that ever captured my attention, and she's way too damn unique to try and recreate. And hourglass is a little overrated." His tongue skates across his bottom lip, his gaze snapping back toward the floor. "These days, uh ... well, these days, it's more about muscles and, uh, gorgeous eyes and being so far out of my league that it may as well be another galaxy or another plane of existence." He lets out a self-deprecating little laugh that ends in a squeak. "Because unattainable pretty much seems to be the building blocks of my type." By the time he silences, his breathing has hitched. He hears another squeal of a heart monitor and realizes that it is from the real world, outside of his mind. Because he's not hooked up to the stupid machines in here, so they can't possibly be what he's hearing. He files that away for later.

"Szymon ... Stiles .." Onuris sighs softly, his features clouded with indecision, confusion and so much sadness, that Stiles can feel it like a physical ache connecting them. After a moment, the creature seems to reach some kind of internal conclusion, because he shuffles over and carefully settles on the bed next to the teen. One more moment of hesitation, and then his arms are wrapping around Stiles in a tight, comforting embrace. "Why do you always do this, my dear?" He murmurs, his lips brushing the expanse of Stiles' temple. Each word is felt. Absorbed through the skin, until the teen feels them like stitches sealing the wounds of his broken soul. "So quick to put yourself down, as if you truly believe that if you beat others to it, they will never speak it. This is destroying you, sweet one." 

The words continue to fill him up. To warm him from the inside out, fanning the embers of his spirit as he clings to the ancient creature. He is suddenly possessed with the desire to merge with Onuris. He wants to crawl closer and closer until they are one object occupying the same space. Until he ceases to exist.

"No, Stiles!" Onuris hisses against his temple, presses fervent little kisses there as he struggles to hold him. "That is the exact -opposite- of what you need to do, sweet one. This world -needs- you, Szymon. You cannot fade away, cease to exist. It is not yet your time! I know it is hard, my dear. I know it hurts, the world seems cruel and painful, overwhelming." He sighs softly, lips scraping further down along his temple, until they brush tenderly against the curve of Stiles' shoulder. Even here, in his mind, the teen smells of werewolf, magic, and comfort. He smells like Home and life, like pack and place, belonging, even if he does not realize it. 

"But .."

"No, sweet one. In this, there are no buts. You are weary, in pain, however that will, in time, fade. -You- do not have to do so." The words are stilted but sincere. With a sigh, Onuris nuzzles against him for a moment before letting go, reluctantly. "Sleep, Stiles. We will try next time."

* * *

"I'm not comfortable with this, Onuris." Stiles is not -whining-, even though he totally is. Legit whining, because this is going to hurt. So very much. He can already feel the fateful clench in his chest. The stutter of breath in his throat. Can a dream/vision version of oneself have panic attacks? He has a feeling he will find out, soon enough.

"I know, sweet one." Onuris wraps his arms around Stiles from behind. Gently nestles his nose against the nape of his neck and breaths in the scent of him. Does this version of him have a true scent? Or is his mind supplying the memory of what he -thinks- he smells like? Is Onuris the type of supernatural creature that can scent him in this strange mind palace-like place? So many questions, and he hopes he will get an answer to them once this is through. "But it -must- be done, Stiles. I will not sit back and watch you die, my dear. I -cannot-." 

"Will ... will you be here, with me .. while this happens?" His voice cracks and then shatters, falling to pieces as he struggles to hold himself together. A gentle squeeze of the arms around him, and a warm puff of breath across his nape, and he is relaxing. Instinctively falling into the embrace of something older and stronger than himself. Something gentle, caring, and protective.

"Of course, sweet one. I am not going anywhere, Stiles. I am here for you, for as long as you need me." The teen shivers, his entire body going momentarily rigid when he feels the ghostly caress of lips across the pulse point on his neck. Within moments, he has calmed, fallen nearly limp and boneless in the arms that hold him up. Lend him strength.

"T-thank you, Onuris." He croaks the words out, his eyes closing tightly. He inhales and exhales violently, several times. Fighting against the inevitable panic attack he expects to manifest from this little ... journey. "O-okay .. lets do this." This time, when an ephemeral kiss is pressed to his skin, he does not tense or stiffen. He makes a soft, contented sound in the back of his throat before he forces himself to concentrate.

"Okay .. now, I want you to concentrate, Stiles. Conjure an image of her. Stretch your mind, embrace the memories so old that you cannot access them when awake." The words wrap around him. Envelope him in warmth, boost his confidence and leave him thoroughly convinced that he can -do- this! 

"O-Okay..." 

_Hale House. Stiles cannot remember ever seeing it whole and beautiful. Now, it is bright and gorgeous, standing out against the trees that surround and frame it. Sunlight streams down, illuminating the woods, creating fairy-light-like patches of warmth. Even at a distance, the sound of children laughing and playing echoes all around the home._

_And there she is. The vision of her stabs through his heart, shards of ice and crystal tearing and abrading the poor, fleshy organ. She is just as he remembers her! Wavy, shoulder length brunette hair, a shade darker than his. The same manic, mischievous glint in her dark mocha colored eyes. His tend to lean a little more toward amber or gold, if the light hits just right. Her features are soft and infinitely more youthful than he can ever remember them._

__"She .. she's beautiful." He whispers hoarsely as arms tighten around him again. In fact, he thinks Onuris might be the only thing keeping him standing at this point.

"Yes, she was beautiful, vibrant. Much like you, Szymon." Stiles blushes deeply, forcing himself to concentrate on the scene unfolding.

_Claudia Stilinski takes in a deep breath, holds it until she feels dizzy, and then slowly exhales._

_"Talia!" Her voice rings out, powerful and true, a hint of breathless happiness in it. The sudden silence is nearly deafening in it's entirety. It lasts all of half a minute before the pounding of feet are heard. From the house, the backyard, the sides of the house. The entire pack comes rushing out, the sense of family and happiness so overwhelming that Stiles goes weak in the knees, Onuris forced to hold him upright, which is no hardship for the ancient being._

_Talia appears from the throng of pack, her features just as bright and beautiful as Claudia's. In truth, the two women could almost be sisters. The same length hair, though Talia's was black rather than brunette. The same round, distinguished faces, the same mischievous, yet wise glint in their eyes._

_"Claudia." There is no mistaking the honey-sweet, silken soft tone of sisterhood and love in the utterance of the name. They seem to surge forward as one, each rushing to the other. They collide with a surprising amount of soft grace, Claudia carefully turning into the Alpha so that one arm remains tucked protectively close to her body. "You didn't have to come out here, dear. I was going to visit you this evening." The Alpha is smiling, though. Her words are not reprimanding, they are concerned. Coated in worry._

_"I know, dear, I know. But, I had to come. It is time he is introduced, yes?" Claudia is practically trembling with an over abundance of energy and anticipation. Almost bouncing on the balls of her feet as she carefully adjusts something. It takes a few moments for a swatch of bright red fabric to come into view, Stiles sucking in a deep, tremored breath when he realizes that it is a baby blanket. -HIS- baby blanket._

__He wants ... he wants to shut his eyes. He wants ... to hold his breath, count to ten, and hope that this will all go away. They say knowledge is power, and he has always been a firm believer of this. Why else would he possess such finely honed, ninja-like research skills? But now .. in this moment ....... watching a memory of his MOM getting ready to present him Lion King-style to the entire HALE PACK? This is beyond surreal, and he is now beginning to believe that ignorance may truly be bliss.

"I know, sweet one, I know. Deep breathes, Stiles. Calm and steady, dear." The words anchor him, and wow! He suddenly understands Derek and the Pack a hell of a lot better! Because he can -feel- it! The thrumming, drumming hum under his skin as he feels Onuris anchoring him in the vision. Steadying him. Though, he knows something as simple as an abstract thought wouldn't be good enough for a werewolf. He totally gets it now!! 

_"Brothers, sisters, cousins, friends, dear Pack .." Claudia's voice booms and crackles with happiness, pride, and love. Gently, she peels back the red blanket to reveal the serenely sleeping features of her son. "I present Szymon Stilinski, the Boy Who Will Run With Wolves, future Emissary to the Pack." The sound of shuffling feet, rustling fabric, and inhalations of breath fill the air. A symphony of acceptance as every member of the pack, save two, press in close to get a look at the newest edition. Some touch, little more than a single finger brushing the bright red fabric. Others merely scent the air, drawing the essence of newborn deep into their lungs, memorizing it._

_Through it all, Claudia is a fount of beaming pride! She coos and murmurs. Not just to her son, but to the werewolves that are tenderly welcoming him to their family unit. Once this formality is out of the way, the pack reforms around the two lone figures that had not yet approached the sleeping bundle; Talia and her son._

_"Derek." The Alpha whispers, the child pushing closer to her legs. He is shy, uncertain. Yes, there are humans in their Pack, but they are blood, kith and kin. This is an outsider, even if it is the pup of Mrs. Stilinski, even if it may one day be an Emissary. "It's okay, Derek. Come meet Szymon." She coaxes, amused, watching the boy cling to her leg. "Derek .." She cajoles, trying to remain patient with her boy. Finally, he forces himself to let go. Forces himself to take the few, stumbling steps toward the bright red cloth._

_He barely manages to keep himself upright, tripping over his own clumsy feet, but recovering as he nears. Slowly, cautiously, as if he expects this to be some kind of trick, he lowers his nose toward the little bundle of fabric. The previously sleeping child wakes with a few lazy blinks of sleep-blurred eyes. Derek pushes in closer, slowly, trying not to frighten the wide-eyed creature._

_Which was apparently a ridiculous move on his part. Because, even though the now fully awake infant should be able to -sense- that it is surrounded by a bunch of scary, non-human creatures, should be dragging in the kind of epic breath a baby needs to scream itself into sleepy submission, it really, really isn't reacting that way. No, little Szymon Stilinski's eyes get wider, larger, and it begins to giggle. To babble wordlessly. Because this is the pattern of Szymon's life. Happy, nonsensical babbling._

_Derek's eyes widen, his lips twisting into a faint frown. This is not right! A pup, even a -human- one, should be reacting with at least some small thread of self preservation. To prove his point, the little werewolf flashes his golden eyes, elongates his fangs and growls at the infant._

_Yeah, and how does Szymon react? Why, he babbles and giggles even louder, chubby little hands reaching out. One pushes against the werewolf's chin, the other reaches right out and grabs Derek's nose. Pinches and pulls at it. Talia tenses, expecting Derek to try and shift. To react to the pain of his nose being assaulted. This time, it is Derek that surprises everyone._

_His nostrils flare, his eyes widen, and he leans a little closer to the babbling baby._

_"... mine to protect ..." He whines out softly, butts his nose against the hand, and then pulls away. He growls out those words and then trots back to join the rest of the Pack. Talia's hand lifts, fingers splayed against her mouth in utter shock and happiness. Claudia grins, pulls her son closer to her body and exhales so very softly._

_"Yes, Derek. Szymon is yours to protect. To watch over and care for." She leans down, brushes a feather soft kiss to her son's forehead before she straightens. "One day, I will be gone. And he will need all the help he can get."_

The vision does not so much end, as it shatters. Instantly obliterated now that the needed information has been seen and the emotions have overwhelmed him so completely.

"NO!" Stiles screams the single word with the force of a supernova. Feels the way those two letters twist and sculpt his lips with pain and loss. "MOMMY!!" A title a child had once used ejects from him. Leaves him feeling like the burned out husk of the Hale house and every thing it represents. 

Onuris tightens his arms around the poor, lanky male. Draws Stiles closer to his body, as if he might somehow be able to physically absorb the pain the poor teen is experiencing. If he could, he would Gods, but he WOULD!

"I'm sorry, Szymon. Stiles. So sorry. So sorry .... sorry ... sorry ..... sorry ..." The words are whispered over and over, lips pressed to the curve of his neck. Kisses stippled over and over, feather soft, against his skin. "I wish there had been another way, sweet one. Please forgive me." Onuris can feel the first wave of tears down his cheeks. "I did not wish to give you this pain, sweet one. I wished only to help. To explain. You are so important, so needed and necessary." And yet ..... and yet, even as the creature explains all of this, Onuris knows that he would push it all aside. That he would have Stiles forgo any possible responsibility for the denizens of Beacon Hills and run away with him. 

This thought, this revelation, shakes the creature to it's very core. Because it understands, in this moment, what Stiles is. Only now, after revealing to Stiles that he has a place here, in the Pack he has struggled to help over and over again, does Onuris understand that he has both gained and lost something. 

"Forgive me, Stiles." The words have become a sobbed plea, and Stiles feels himself weakening beneath the burden of them. 

"It's okay, Onuris. It's okay." Stiles feels hollowed out, empty, as he struggles to comfort the creature when he himself needs it. The vision of his Mom still bites and cuts, his mind reeling in a sea of negative emotion. "I get it now. I-I do." He forces his words to be strong and confident. None of the false bluster and bravado he usually serves up in situations that are far too large for him. For the first time, he feels genuinely secure in his confidence of his life. 

"Thank you, for showing me the path, for believing in me, man." He turns, slowly, carefully. Trying to ensure that he does not force the other man to drop his arms. He wishes to remain wrapped up in them. Feel the heated weight of them as he looks up, into his eyes. "I can't repay you for this, you know?" 

"There is nothing to repay, sweet one. I am simply glad that you will continue, Taw'am roHi (Twin soul, or soulmate)." Stiles gasps softly when he feels the gentle, silken press of lips against his own. "Seek out Deaton. Tell him I was here, Taw'am roHi. Goodbye." The lips brush his once more, drawing a strangled sob from him when his eyes snap open, for real this time, and he finds himself alone in his hospital room.

* * *

Seven days, five dreams of Onuris, and one panic attack later, Stiles has finally managed to get away from his Dad and the majority of the Pack. After a lot of soul searching, he had decided against telling everyone what had happened beyond the bare bones. They know that he had a seizure, that he had been unable to wake up, and that he is okay now. He left Onuris out of it completely. Though he can't explain it, he wants to keep the ancient creature to himself, in some ways. 

"You don't have to do this, Danny." Stiles sighs the words, lips pursed in a thin, pale line of irritation. Since his release from the hospital, he has had a constant shadow. His Dad hovers when he's at home and a member of the Pack is never more than a few dozen feet away ... except Derek. After the memory of the first time they met, the absence of the Alpha feels like he's being electrocuted with every other breath he takes. 

"Of course I don't -have- to, Stiles. I -WANT- to, idiot." There is a fondness in the exasperated tone Danny uses, reaching out to lightly thread his arm through his. It's friendly, simple, perfect. Because Danny is always perfect. He knows when to be personal, impersonal, friendly, or even an asshole. His instincts are beautiful. 

".. thanks, man. I'm just ... ugh, I'm getting tired of it, you know?" He huffs out a pained breath, running his fingers through his hair. "I get that everyone is worried, I do ... a lot of strange shit is happening lately, but I need -breathing- room." As if to accentuate this fact, he draws a deep, heavy breath in, holds it until it hurts .. and then exhales softly. Silently. 

"And -again- .. we only do that because we -want- to, idiot." Stiles scowls playfully at his friend.

"Oh my god, if I had a projectile I would totally hit you right now!" He settles for shoving the other teen's shoulder as they head into Deaton's Clinic, remaining joined at the arms for the time being. "But seriously... maybe you can talk to the others? I know that I'm ... I'm breakable and off and things are really screwed up right now, but I need space sometimes." He needs to -not- feel like Pack Property, though he is doing every thing in his power not to use that exact phrase. 

"Okay, okay! I'll talk to the others, though .. well ..." Danny clears his throat, casts his gaze around, struggling to look anywhere but at his friend. "In the end, I can't do much about it. I mean .. you do know -why- we're doing this, right?" 

"Well, yeah, because you're all worried." Danny winces, and offers Stiles something that can only be described as an apologetic smile.

"Yes, we're worried about you, Stiles. But ... well, I mean .. we would've stopped after the first day, if we could have." When Stiles looks at him blankly, obviously not comprehending his words, Danny groans. He actually reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, takes a deep breath, and plows onward to fully explain. "Derek .. ordered us, to keep watch over you, Stiles. He, like .. used his Alpha Voice and everything. One packmate must be present at all times, until we're sure you're fully recovered." 

Stiles stops walking, Danny grunting in surprise when the dead weight draws him back toward his friend. Derek Hale. Alpha Asshole. -Ordered- his pack to watch over him?? He drags in a ragged breath, lungs suddenly burning. Vision wishing to eclipse. He has no reason, nothing to make this moment make -sense-, because the thought of Derek making the pack watch over him, reminds him of Onuris' tight, clutching hugs that had given him strength. That had held him up in the dream world where young Derek Hale said that Szymon Stilinski was -his- to protect. 

"I .. o-okay." He whistles his exhaled breath, his free hand raising to rub at his cheek. His head is bobbing spastically, his eyes now serpentine slits of concentration. "Don't bring it up, then, Danny. Just .. you guys just keep doing it. It's okay." It's really not, but he won't interfere with this. Whatever this is. 

A cone of silence descends around them as they enter the Veterinary Clinic. Dr. Deaton glances at them, nodding stiffly before he returns to a pile of papers he's working on. Stiles silently slips into the back room, settling gently on the metal exam table. His thoughts are all over the place. Worse than if he had forgotten his Adderall. He is only vaguely aware of the fact that Danny has taken up residence next to him. Has moved so that his legs are tangled gently with his, getting comfortable. Offering presence and weight and security, because he just -knows- that Stiles needs it. As per usual. 

"You're the best, Danny." He murmurs almost sleepily, reaching up to scrub his palms across his eyes, down his cheeks. "Like legit the best, Danny. You always know exactly what everyone needs." He gently wriggles his legs, tangling them further, his eyelids flowing to half-mast as he regards him.

"I am kinda awesome, huh?" Danny preens playfully, waggling his brows before his gaze is drawn to the door as Dr. Deaton walks in.

"Ah, Stiles. Mr. Mahealani." Deaton smiles in that laid back, easy way that puts Stiles on edge. Something that simple should not leave his skin crawling, but it does. He wants to stand and run from this place, because he is getting a sinking feeling in his gut. Something bad is about to happen. Something painful and heart-wrenching and there's nothing he can do but accept it and move forward. The thought of doing so makes him want to sick up but he clamps down on the feeling and continues forward. Always forward.

"Dr. Deaton. I'm sorry to be dropping by like this, but --" 

"Yes, I know, Stiles. Onuris told me to expect you." Hearing the name voiced out loud sucks the air from his lungs. He releases it in a high-pitched, quivering shudder that has Danny reaching for him. A single, strong hand caressing gentle circles against the small of his back. Onuris. The uttering of a name should not have the power to render him useless, but it does. His world tilts on it's axis and he feels sicker. Powerless. Surreal, even. 

"I .. he ... he told me .. to come here. He .. said to seek you out, tell you he was here, but I guess .. he already .. he .." The sentences are fractured murals of his internal pain. Perfect depictions of the sorrow slithering through his soul. Danny's eyes have gone round as porcelain saucers. Brimming with confusion and concern, because even if he doesn't understand what is going on, what the two are discussing, he knows that his friend is in pain. He doesn't like that. Stiles shouldn't be in pain! 

"Yes, he came to me, before he departed, back where he belongs."

"He left ... me." Gutted. That is the only word that can describe Stiles tone. He's gutted as he punches those words from dry, twisted lips. "He left me here, alone. After everything .. he said, he .. he left me here. I thought." He cuts off. Forces himself to fall into a state of tortured silence. Forces himself, for once, to try and find some singular sense to his thoughts, to filter his mouth before allowing himself to use it. "He called me Taw'am roHi, and kissed me. Made me relive the pain of a memory of my Mother, and had me convinced that he -wanted- me, somehow, someway. And then he left me." He draws in a struggled breath, feels Danny's hand press almost roughly against his back. Because they -both- know what is about to happen.

"Stiles. Please. Just breathe." That is an order, but one that he cannot comply with. Because this is the one thing that Danny cannot make better. Cannot forestall. Stiles barely manages to suck in another breath before it happens. The air in his mouth hitches. It hits an invisible wall between the back of his throat and his lungs. He tries to force it down. Feels it pooling like gunge against his tongue and the panic sets in. Takes over. "STILES!" Danny screams his name, fingers trying to probe along his spine. Maybe, just -maybe-, if he finds the right ridge in Stiles' spinal column, he can diffuse the panic attack. 

Not so much. Almost immediately, he feels the burn in his chest. The hiccuped, stuttering breathes. The shaking in his hands. He paws at his own knees, scrabbling for purchase though it won't do any good. Even if he manages to hold on to himself, it will not steady him. Not truly.

"Stiles. Please. Stiles, breathe for me." Somewhere beyond the panic, he is aware of Danny's voice. Of a quaking hand pressed tight against his heart. Of someone breathing against his back, and it is the beginning of the end. His panic tumbles like falling blocks, one after the other, each breath falling into the next until he is breathing as he should be. 

"D-Danny... Dan-O .. Dan the Man .. always know .. what .. I need ..." He sobs feather soft, but he knows Danny hears him. Is rewarded with the knowledge when his friend releases a quivered laugh of hot, wet air across his neck. Presses his nose to his skin and sighs in relief.

"Of course I do, Stiles. I'm fucking -awesome- like that!" He can't help it, Stiles laughs, strained, but at least it's a laugh. He jutters and jitters with the force of it, peeling his eyes open to see that Deaton is staring at him. For the first time ever, he is an open book of emotion. Sadness, determination, pity, and heartbreak. It is a menagerie of feeling on display, and it makes Stiles squirm minutely. Because Deaton is a well schooled sculpture most of the time. For him to be so raw and open ... it scares the teen. Thoroughly. 

"Stiles .." So very gently, the veterinarian prompts him, to get him back on topic. Deaton's features have slid back into a mask of collected indifference, and Stiles feels his heart skip a beat. Or two. Maybe six. "I am sorry that Onuris leaving hurt you, but he had little choice. I .. do you know what Taw'am roHi means?" Not unexpectedly, Stiles shakes his head no, and Deaton nods in understanding. "I will also assume that Onuris did not tell you -what- he was." A statement, not a question, though Stiles still nods his agreement. 

"Very well." Deaton draws in a deep breath, sharp gaze straying toward Danny. He considers asking him to step out of the room, but the teen is already wearing a look of open challenge and defiance. Because of course, there was no way he was going to leave Stiles. Out of a sense of duty to his orders, and a sense of concern for thier friendship. "Onuris is a Bittern. Also known as a Raredumle. It is a very powerful avian demi-god with the ability to bridge the gap between states of being. Their booming calls mark those, that ... what I mean to say, are those that .. have chosen .. to give up. To ... fade away. Cease." Stiles does not have to move .. to crane or cant his head to the side to know that Danny has a hard, terrified expression on his face, because he can read what the words are suggesting. That Stiles had been ready to shut down and basically die. To simply cease, as if it were nothing major. 

Danny is struggling. He is fighting a heroic battle between knocking his friend out and dragging him back to the Pack so that they can be made aware of what Stiles had been trying to do, and grabbing the boy close and weeping his fucking HEART out at the situation that must be so dire, that Stiles had considered such a thing in the first place. But, there is no time for either, because Deaton is not yet done with the young man. 

"Onuris is one of the oldest Bittern that I have ever come across. So old, that he does not even remember how he came into existence." Stiles sucks in a squeaking breath. The creature ... Onuris seemed so sad, so alone, and Stiles would give anything to make sure he never had to feel that away again. But he can't. Because Onuris didn't want him. He left him behind!! "The Bittern ... once every few generations, a Bittern is born with a destined mate." The words are spoken slow, a hint of pain in every enunciated syllable. More emotion than Stiles is used to the Vet producing. "Taw'am roHi roughly means soulmate ... to a Bittern, Taw'am roHi is the end all, be all, for them." He doesn't give time for the words to sink in, but plows forward in that eerily calm way of his. "However, unlike some creatures born with Mates ... a Taw'am roHi may be mated before they meet their Bittern. Especially if a Taw'am roHi is born human." This time, he takes pause. Gently presses his palms together in quite agitation as he allows Stiles to absorb this new information. 

If he can.

"Onuris left because he knew ... he knew he was too late. Your life is, in some ways, predestined, Stiles. There is a path you have begun and Onuris would not cause you pain by interfering with it. He cares too deeply to hurt you in such a way. So, he did the only thing he could. Left." Stiles sucks in a wheezing breath. Feels the tension in his body ratchet up ten fold. Every muscle constricts. Tightens and coils. His lungs begin to burn even as his vision pricks with black at the edges. "I am sorry, Stiles, but you will never see Onuris again." With those words, the Vet turns, departs the room to give the teen time to try and handle this news. 

"Stiles .... hey, Stiles, it's going to be okay." Danny's voice is an anchor. A ray of hope reaching through the terror, latching onto him and bringing him to the surface of his pain before he drowns in it. "I'm so sorry, Stiles. It's gonna be okay, man." He turns into Danny when he registers the hand on his back. He shoves his face against the other teen's chest as tears stream down his cheeks. It takes almost two full minutes for him to realize that he's sobbing. That he is weeping and sniffling against his friend. Softly wailing his sorrow as he struggles to balance himself. The entire time he cries, Danny whispers soothing words, runs his hand up and down Stiles' back as he holds him. Struggles to comfort him. 

"D-dann-y ... I .. I ..." Words elude him. Though even in his utter misery, his mind tries to be 'normal' inasmuch as he weakly thinks that for once, he is practically rendered speechless. Wouldn't the rest of the Pack -love- to know that has actually happened? That there is a time in which he has finally shut up? 

But no, he knows that isn't true. The Pack would be worried about him, if they could see him now. They would be moved by his sadness. They would push in against him, until every one was in contact with him in some way, and they would be there for him as he deals with this pain. 

"Shh. I'm here, Stiles. Just let it all out, man." Danny turns, brushes a kiss to the edge of Stiles' temple, clutching him close as he continues to whimper and weep in turn. Almost half an hour later, he has passed into an exhausted sleep against his friend. 

At some point, he wakes up in his own bed, foggy-minded from sleep and so much time spent crying. He vaguely wonders how he got home but in the end, he just doesn't give a damn. 

"... fuck the supernatural world." He whispers those words vehemently into his pillow before he turns his back on his room and falls into a fitful, nightmare plagued sleep.


	4. That Sassy Fae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes!
> 
> First off, just a little bit of a warning; Derek is a little bit of an asshole in this chapter, but nothing too bad. Just the usual attitude that comes with someone being emotionally confused and damaged. 
> 
> Also, while Stiles does some bitching about the members of the Pack, it's nothing too rude or mean. It's the kind of things someone says when they are feeling unappreciated.
> 
> And last! These are the two random images that inspired Sam in this chapter: 
> 
> http://i.imgur.com/XbXr78R.jpg
> 
> &
> 
> http://i.imgur.com/7ckmBP5.jpg

One month. It has been one month to the -day- that Dr. Deaton explained what Taw'am roHi meant to Stiles. One month to the day since the teen was forced to come to terms with the fact that there is a Supernatural creature out there that will spend the rest of it's already considerably long life alone, because Stiles apparently couldn't be with him. That kind of information? Not exactly easy to handle. No, it's a huge fucking burden that has been steadily weighing him right down, into the ground. 

So, what's the best remedy for crushingly overwhelming things you'd really rather -NOT- think about? Correct! Life or death situations. Because that's what he currently finds himself in. Another life or death situation. 

Three nights ago, Isaac and Erica spotted something weird in the woods close to Hale House. They found a clearing littered with mutilated animals, ranging from squirrels and rabbits, to the head of a stag, and several eviscerated frogs. Yes, frogs. It had been arranged in a pattern that none of them could understand until Stiles had pushed his way through the Pack and studied it. 

In the end, it proved to be a large, bloody pentagram with runes drawn at various intervals. After a quick research session, Stiles discovered that it was a summoning ritual involving a Witch and some serious mojo. The only parts of the ritual that are missing? Well, as far as the Pack know, it's the blood of an Alpha. Stiles -may- have forgotten to mention that it also needed the blood of a virginal human member of said Alpha's Pack. Because what the Pack -didn't- know, -didn't- stop them from letting him be involved. 

Of course, if he had told them the truth, he wouldn't currently be running for his life while concentrated energy projectiles blast the trees he's desperately weaving through! 

"Could you BE any more CLICHE!?" He screams the words over his shoulder, barely managing to careen gracelessly to the left, dodging another blast of energy that singes the trunk of the tree he is trying to run around. "I mean, COME ON! A gnarled branch as a wand? Scraggly, unkempt hair?? You're a walking, stalking stereotype!" He grunts, the last word coming out in a high pitched whine when his trainer snags a particularly high root and sends him sprawling onto the ground in an undignified heap. 

"I will enjoy draining you, you annoying little mouthpiece! Gods! How have your Pack not ripped your fucking tongue out yet!?" Stiles still has the self-preservation skills of a lemming, because he flips the witch off even as he's struggling to get back to his feet.

"To be honest, I'm a little surprised by that, myself. I mean, most of them have hit me at least once, everyone has told me to shut up at least several dozen times. And hey, the Alpha regularly threatens to rip my throat out with his teeth. But come on, what's a little death threat amongst friends and packmates, right?" He actually throws his head back and laughs almost hysterically at that last bit. He can hear his laughter reverberate around the trees. And that is intentional. He might not be able to howl to let the others know where he is, but he can still communicate with the wolves. So take that, Witch Bitch! 

He takes off running, another burst of loud, projected laughter howling through the night to call his Pack in his direction. 

"Are you insane!?" The witch sneers as she sends another wave of energy. Stiles yelps as something hot and electric grazes his side. The sudden overbearing pain eclipsing his vision for a second. Which is just long enough for him to run face first into a tree. He can feel the sting of hard bark cutting his cheek, his hand flying up too late as he rebounds off the tree and lands flat on his back. Dazed and confused until the features of the Witch come into view. 

She is almost fearl. Wearing a tattered black dress that is splattered with blood and caked with mud and forest debris. Her long hair cascading down her back is probably a pretty shade of dirty blond beneath the muck and grime it's matted with. Her face is even streaked with dirt, her wild eyes a sickly yellow-green as she stares down at him. She has a manic air of energy around her that turns Stiles' stomach, though he is valiantly fighting the need to be sick. 

"Ugh, I can understand why a little twit like you is still a virgin at your age, boy. That mouth, while pretty, spews far too much to -ever- be attractive. Poor dear." She coos and murmurs even as she reaches down to grab a fist full of his shirt. "In the end, I'm doing you and your pathetic little Pack a favor, my dear. Your death will be quick and painless, and it will spare you living to a ripe old age just as pathetic and untouched as you are now."

Stiles wants to scream. Rage. He wants to rip her flesh from her bones with his own -teeth-! He wants to gouge her eyes out, thrust his nails into her belly and eviscerate her for her words! Because he wants to scream that he is the Mate of a Bittern, of something ancient and beautiful and POWERFUL, even if he couldn't be with him. 

"But in the end, it is truly your -Alpha- I will be helping the most, I think." She giggles as she says this. Actually -giggles-, right in his face. The bitch is PREENING, in fact, as she carefully lifts him to a standing position by a fistful of fabric. "The Alpha doesn't have to die, you see. I only need a -little- of his blood. Just half a cup or so." She giggles again, lifting Stiles high enough that his feet no longer touch the ground. "But you? See, I need to drain you completely. -That- is why I'm doing your Alpha a favor. He will be so relieved not to have to worry about such a pathetic, breakable, ridiculous waste of space in his Pack. Honestly! Are you -even- Pack? I mean, why would they want you!? What could one measly, loud mouth little human have to offer a group of supernatural beings!?" Before he can answer, pain explodes across his face. She has taken the thick, gnarled branch and smashed it across the cheek the tree had cut. He howls again. This time, in pain. It is louder and more discordant than his laughter had been. "If this ritual did not involve Alpha blood, I would never have gone against werewolves. They are beautiful, powerful creatures. Just the -thought- that something as mundane and -disgusting- as you would ever -think- to belong to a Pack pisses me off! I want to gut you on principal alone!" She sneers at him. Hot, fetid breath spilling out, across his features, making him feel sicker. 

"Yeah, I get it. I'm a fucking liability!" He screams the words in her face a second before he lifts one of his hands and breathes dirt and dust into her eyes. She screams in pain, hand loosening from his shirt. He falls unsteadily to his feet and brings his knee up, smashing her in the stomach. He then jumps back and kicks at her hand as hard as he can, sending her wand flying away. 

"YOU SON OF A BITCH! I WILL DESECRATE YOUR INNOCENT CORPSE WHEN I AM THROUGH WITH YOU!!" She screams bloody murder as she paws desperately at her eyes, trying to rub the grit and grime away. Stiles lunges for the fallen branch, yanking it out of her reach before he stumbles back away from her desperately swiping hands. "I will trap your soul and use it for my rituals! You will NEVER know peace, you --" 

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Stiles roars the words. The power in his voice startling even -him-. His surprise is further amped up when he realizes that she has actually done so. Her eyes, still streaked with dirt, are wide as saucers. Her mouth open and dumbfounded. "I. Get. It. I'm anathema in your eyes, bitch! Well, guess what?? You are NOT telling me anything I don't -already- know!" He snarls again, hands shaking where he's suddenly clutching the branch. His knuckles are bone white, his fingers an ugly red where they are being ripped by the wood. 

"Don't do this!" She pleads, her hands scrubbing at her face one more time before she holds them out toward Stiles in a begging gesture. Usually, that would get to him. Usually, that would be enough to break his resolve and he would wait to take any action until the Pack had arrived. Usually, he would leave this kind of decision up to his Alpha. But he's pissed. She's managed to push every single one of his insecurities up to the surface with just a few sentences.

"Fuck you, skank." He seethes, his breath a cold, ominous vapor as he grips the branch as tight as he can. He rears back, shoulders tensed, features pulled into a feral snarl of anger before he brings the branch down as hard as he can against the ground. Watches it splinter and break into a dozen pieces before releasing it. 

"NO!!" She shrieks, loud and piercing, causing his hands to jump up and cover his ears. Unfortunately, that is the only reaction he has time for before he's lifted off the ground and hurtled backward into a tree. He feels the pain of his shoulder cracking against the immovable object before he falls to the ground. The magic released from the broken branch having thrown him. He sucks in several pained breaths, tears welling and falling at the pain.

".. once ... just once ... I wish .. wish .. I were still innocent." He laughs bitterly, tasting tears and dirt on his lips as he lays there. In too much pain and ache to lift himself up.

"You will pay for this! All of that magic .. so carefully cultivated and you RUINED IT!!" The shrieking grows louder, and Stiles can do little more than groan. Because he's useless. He's pathetic. He's already broken and ruined for whatever is about to come next. "But do not worry, my pretty little thing. I can still drain you. I can still use every last drop of your disgusting, arrogant, putrid blood to get what I want! I will destroy you and then I will laugh in your Alpha's face when I take his blood, too!" She throws her head back and shouts her happiness to the heavens in the form of a hysterical giggle of glee. 

That becomes a blood curdling scream moments later when a large, angry form collides with her, sending her sprawling to the dirt. Derek's red eyes gleam in the darkness as he roars in her face. Blood and spit splatter her cheeks and nose, her eyes wide and disbelieving. 

"You .. won't.. touch ... him!" The Alpha manages to drag those words out through his clenched jaws and protruding fangs. His words are strained, wild ... bloodthirsty as he roars down at her again. He doesn't give her the chance to respond, to plead, to do anything. No, she had said she was going to kill Stiles, bleed him dry. He rips her throat out with his claws, one last roar at her cooling corpse before he stands and rushes to where Stiles is still laying on the ground. 

"You held .. her off." Derek manages to grit out, still wearing his beta form as he looks down at the teen. His eyes are closed, blood and dirt caking his cheeks and hands. The scent of it draws the Alpha form closer and closer to the surface, not allowing Derek to reclaim his human side as he struggles to look Stiles over. The scent of blood terrifies him, though he's managing to cover it up. The fact that Stiles' shoulder looks swollen, the fact that the teen won't -look- at him .. it is all scary, hard to process. He wants nothing more than to lift the boy into his arms and run as fast as he can. Get him to safety, but the two sides of him cannot agree on what that would be; den or hospital. Wild or civilized. He bites off the soft whine that has begun to build in the back of his throat. 

"Yeah, well .. dirt in the eyes and a knee to the stomach can take a lot of people down. Then, it was just a matter of shattering the skank's wand." Stiles coughs, whimpers in pain as the action rattles his tired, torn body. "Unfortunately, the magic totally threw me into a tree. Because even when I do the -right- thing, bad shit happens." A twisted, pained laugh escapes him, his eyes shutting tighter as he struggles to breathe. 

"You .. did good .. Stiles." Derek grunts the words out, even as he -finally- feels himself beginning to sink back into the human side of things. After a moment of hesitation, he grabs up Stiles' hand, seeing the blood congealed there. Smelling the treated wood that is thrust under the vulnerable skin of his human. "You and splinters, Stiles." He huffs out a skaky breath. Desperately trying to hide his fear behind humor. Not that he's that funny or anything. 

"Yeah, apparently, wood hates me." The teen's voice squeaks when he feels the gentle press of Derek's teeth against his palm. Again. Fishing splinters out with a delicate sweetness that makes the teen's stomach dip and swell reflexively. Slowly, carefully, the slivers of wood are nipped and nibbled from his flesh, Stiles' breathing a rollercoaster of epic ups and downs as he fights through the sensation of Derek actually trying to take care of him. 

".. I'm not even going to touch that statement, Stiles." Derek deadpans the words a second before his tongue flashes from between his blood stained lips. Laps at the wounds and does his best to hide a smirk when Stiles gasps at the sensation of tongue against skin. 

"How very magnanimous of you, sourwolf." He drawls out, his eyes finally flutter open so that he can see the way Derek is clutching his hand. The way he is bent over it as he works. Stiles' stomach drops out once more, his breathing quickening for a second before he drags it back down to normal levels.

"I'm feeling very generous right now." He deadpans again, not bothering to hide the little uptick of his lips into a ghost of a smile when Stiles grins up at him. 

"All these jokes, I'd almost think I was dying, Derek." Lame. The words are so lame, and the look of pain that seizes the werewolf's handsome, scowly features reveals just how poorly timed the joke is.

"Don't ... you don't .. even ... fucking JOKE .. about .. that!" Each word is ripped from the werewolf's lips with a snarl and growl to punctuate them as he sinks back into his wolf face. The teen forces himself to a sitting position. Reaches out with his uninjured hand to press his palm to the curve of Derek's elbow. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean .... I'm sorry, sourwolf." He thrusts the words from tired lips, wincing when the reach toward the Alpha twinges his messed up arm. "I think .. it's dislocated." He breathes through his nose, words tinny and high pitched with pain. His eyes have fallen closed again, the distraught teen wanting nothing more than to retreat into the comfort of numbing darkness and sleep. "Maybe .. a concussion. So fucking -sleepy-, Derek." He's whining now. He -knows- it. But he will cut himself a little slack at the moment, considering he helped stop a Witch that was going to hurt his Alpha. 

"Yeah, it's dislocated. And don't think for a -second- that we aren't going to talk about this, Stiles." Fully human again, Derek lifts him gingerly from the ground, carrying him bridal style so that he doesn't hurt his arm. "You -can't- keep things from me, Stiles! Goddamn it, she was going to -drain- you and you didn't bother telling anyone!" He grits the words out, his anger so vast that he sees red, his eyes flashing Alpha in his wrath. "If you weren't hurt, I'd put you through a fucking tree myself for doing something so stupid! Yes, you busted her wand, took her down so that I could kill her, but if .. if she had gotten the upper hand... she was going to drain you, -painfully-!" His words have crescendoed into a half scream of rage, and Stiles simply rests against his chest. Letting him rant. 

Because this, at least, is normal. Stiles saves the day in some dramatic, over the top way, Derek bitches at him for it, and then they go back to their regularly scheduled program. And yeah, okay, so Derek actually ADMITTING that Stiles had saved the day, and then alluding to any type of feelings or emotions about his possible death are new, but manageable. The joking, the -flirting-, is territory that just is not safe for Stiles' peace of mind.

"She was also going to bleed you, Derek! At least I kept her distracted before she could capture you! And then broke her stupid fucking branch before she could use her magic against our Pack!" He huffs an angry, hot, wet breath against Derek's neck, causing the werewolf to gasp. Thankfully, so feather soft that even this close, Stiles' human senses don't pick it up.

Our Pack. _Our Pack_. _**OUR PACK.**_ Those words ricochet through Derek's mind. Stiles not only considers himself Pack, but he considers the Pack THEIRS. Derek's heart thuds painfully, his arms tightening around the human to settle him a little more firmly against his chest as he carries him. 

"She was going to bleed me and -kill- you, Stiles! Now, which one of those do you think pisses me off more!?" 

"... now, I know what the -obvious- answer should be, but that might -only- be obvious to -me-. Therefore, I'm trying to hedge my bets and think like -you-! But I really don't think I'm capable of that amount of brooding angst, man. No matter how hard I -- OW!!" He whines pathetically when Derek jostles him. It doesn't really hurt that much, just a little pinch and pull, but he plays it up, of course! "Dude, fragile human here, remember?!? Don't manhandle the merch!" He adds an extra whine to his words, but Derek can see, or maybe hear, right through them. Because Stiles is in pain, scared, and trying to use his endless rambling to cover it all up.

"You're not fragile, Stiles." The Alpha never meant for those words to come. To spill out like verbal vomit all over the teen he's clutching so close. "Fragile people don't run headlong into danger, incapacitate a feral witch, and bust her wand." More words he had no intention of letting loose. Wow, he -must- be spending too much time around the spastic teen for his brain-to-mouth filter to have clogged and corroded so horribly. "And no, you're not useless or pathetic, or ridiculous, or whatever other bullshit she probably spewed at you. Or any of the other stupid bullshit your letting yourself think right now." Yeah, because he's just going to cut that shit right off, before Stiles can let his imagined faults and flaws take over his mind.

".. thanks." That single word is anything but simple. It's fraught with layer upon layer of overwhelming emotions that neither of them are particularly equipped to handle at the moment.

"Yeah." Another word that is far too complex for the strange situation unfolding around them. Derek grits his teeth, hitches Stiles a little closer, and reluctantly slips out of the woods. Just as he passes the treeline, the scent of honeysuckle, cloyingly, wonderfully sweet, washes across the Alpha's senses but recedes almost as quickly as it came.

* * *

Stiles awakens sore, foul tempered, and smelling of honeysuckle, salt, and thyme. He is forced to bite back a turkey joke, else he sour his own mood even further. Getting washed up and dressed takes longer than it should. Though his arm had been reset into it's socket, the throb and ache left over are near incapacitating. Again, this should teach him to go messing with things so far beyond the realm of safe, but it is a lesson that will never be learned. 

The trek from his front door to his jeep finds him assaulted by more hints of honeysuckle and he instantly hates the aroma. He wants something physical to rip to pieces. No, not -wants-. He **_NEEDS_** something he can decimate with his own hands. Something to cleanse the anger and pain coursing through him. He stops abruptly at his jeep, eyes narrowed in anger and confusion when he sees a thin sheen of ... POLLEN .... sticking to the surface of the automobile. His nostrils flare and he curses when he realizes that it's honeysuckle residue. As if someone had collected a million of the little flowers, pulled the juices out, and rubbed it all over his ride to school. 

"Motherfucking .. sons of bitches ... flowering asshats!" He spews expletives like air, jarring his door open and climbing into the jeep as he continues to mutter and mumble his displeasure. His hands quickly envelope his steering wheel, knuckles spotted red and white with exertion as he fights the sense of pain and displeasure flowing through him. 

It is more than a little disconcerting that he finds comfort in the stale air of the jeep in comparison to the 'clean' air outside. Some small part of himself afraid that he will be further smothered by the honeysuckle scent if he cracks his window open. By the time he pulls in to park at school, he is practically vibrating with anger and annoyance. His life has become the comedy of errors from hell. No matter what move he makes, he is falling, flailing. Making things worse. He cannot remember a moment where hope truly lay on the horizon and that **-scares-** him!! 

".. I am going to rip your locker out of the hall, Batman." Erica's voice cuts through his thoughts as he stumbles gracelessly out of his jeep. He doesn't jump or flail, doesn't immediately grasp his chest and bitch about bells or anything to warn him when werewolves are prowling around him. He simply chances a glance at her before shoving the door closed and heading toward the school building. 

"Hello, Erica. It's so fucking -good- to see you this morning." The words drip from compressed lips, his tone nearly scathing rather than it's usual sarcastic, witty, or playful manner. "If you guys can't actually say hello or some variation of, then you can all fuck off and stop talking to me. No more of this bitching at me the moment you see me." He is snarling by the end of his words. Like actual, werewolf/wolf-like snarling that has Erica drawing up short in surprise. Her perfectly puce painted pout falls open in gobsmacked surprise and a little bit of awe. Okay. A LOT of awe. Because ...

"God, you snarled almost exactly like _Derek_!" She gasps the words out, shaking her head a fraction to clear it as she hurries to catch him up. "Damn it! Have you switched bodies? Oh my God, are you actually Derek!? How is this our life!?" She whines. Genuinely, truly whines, a puppy dog sound of discontent as Stiles stalks the semi-filled halls toward his locker. 

"No, despite all the weird things happening these days, I have not, in fact, switched bodies with our sourwolf, emotionally constipated, asshole of a snarking Alpha, Catwoman." He grits the words out like knife thrusts before he draws up short and stares at his locker. In unabashed confusion and annoyance. ".. why the FUCK does my LOCKER smell like FLOWERS?!" Erica manages a deep, too red scowl as she trails behind him. 

"That would be the reason I want to rip the thing out, Stilinski. The entire school smells sickly, rottingly sweet. Because of -you- and whatever is in your locker. FIX. IT." She growls the final two words, putting a little too much Wolfiness in the action, before she turns on her heel and stalks from the area. 

With rage simmering beneath the surface, Stiles aggressively turns the combination on his locker, yanking it open with a little too much force. A slew of curses rains from his pursed lips when the smell increases ten fold. His fingers tremble as they wrap in the collar of his shirt, lifting it to cover his nose. However, the scent is so overwhelming, he still has to pinch his nostrils to block it all out. 

"Oh god! Do I even want to know??" Danny's voice is pitched high, timbre wrecked by the pain of overstimulated olfactory senses. "Who the hell would leave you such nauseatingly overripe flowers, Stiles!?" 

"Hey Danny ...?" He sneers from beneath his hiked shirt collar. "How 'bout you shut the fuck up before I punch you in your ridiculously lickable looking abs, 'kay??" He drawls the words in an impatient shrill as he stares at the bundle of flowers wrapped with a neon yellow bow. Garish. Beautiful. So many conflicting feelings for a sliver of nonsense staring back at him. 

"Really, Stiles? Really!? Ridiculously lickable? Do you even -listen- to yourself half the time??" Danny, the man with the perfect abs, delectable dimples, and unshakable personality actually growls the words at his human friend, voice laced with heat and a small amount of fury. "What kind of straight guy walks around asking if he's attractive to gay guys, and hits on his gay friend's abs??" His tone shifts from heat to exasperation. 

"The kind that is obviously really fucking askew, my dear Danny Boy." The words are obvious Stiles-esque snark, even if they are delivered with half assed intent, due to the young man's attention being trained on the bundle of foliage, still. Poor Danny's shoulders slump, loudly broadcasting a sense of defeat, sadness, and pain, before he slinks down the hallway. There is only so much obliviousness a man can subject themselves to before they must move on. So he is. 

"Freesia." Stiles mumbles to himself, finally reaching into his compromised locker to pluck the flowers forth. The most plentiful blooms are bell shaped with a sweet, citrus scent. Mostly white, with a few pink and red varieties nestled within. "Innocence and friendship." It takes him a moment to follow the tangent in his brain until he finds the file on flower types and meanings. Left over from a horticulture phase that proved too difficult for his addled brain. He easily absorbed the information, but was far too scatter brained to keep any plants alive. 

"White rose ..." He squints at the fat, beautiful bloom nestled in the very middle of the bouquet. He sniffs delicately, trying to center on it's scent alone, and is not disappointed. "Purity .. reverence ... silence." A humorless laugh is barked from pale lips as he tries to digest that last one. "As if I'd ever be silent, right?" He realizes he's talking to himself, but can't bring himself to care. 

".... lavender rose." He sighs. A deep, sweet, nearly romantic sound. Okay, not really. It's a truly, deeply, unmistakably romantic sound! In fact, with dawning horror, he realizes that he probably sounds dangerously close to SWOONING when he makes the sound, but he really can't help himself. Long, elegant fingers dance deftly along the plump petals, trembling vaguely. ".. love ... at first ... sight." He is whispering now. A husky, disheveled quality to his voice.

His tongue spills from his puckered mouth, swiping across the arid planes of his lips, before darting back inside. Wrapped around the neon yellow ribbon, are threads of more honeysuckle. It speaks highly of just how intoxicating the two roses are, that he is able to overlook the currently hated scent.

"Bonds of love." He exhales the final observation, hands tightening around the floral bundle for a brief moment. Because he is torn as to his course of action. The flowers are potent. Powerful enough that even humans with average olfactory capability are glaring at him as if he has committed some capitol offense. 

On the other hand .. he is floored. He's riding the high of an overwhelming compliment coupled with the knowledge that someone has actually left something so full of meaning, for -him-. Sadly, his first thought is a painful one. He feels it spearing through his heart, his hand clamping tighter to the bouquet.

"Onuris." The word is ripped from his lips against his will, and no sooner uttered than he feels the prickly, wet sting of tears against his eyes. He turns, slams his locker moments before he takes off at a mad dash for the nearest exit. It just happens to lead out the back of the school, away from those currently congregating before first bell. He rushes as far as his weak, unsteady legs will take him. He lifts the flowers to inhale their scent one last time, before he throws them as far as they will go. 

The moment they are airborne, a gasp is wrenched from him, deep and soul bearing. His hands fly up, fingers digging like claws at his lips until they are raw red ruins. And then, his palms press mercilessly against his eyes, trying to grind out the image of the Bittern superimposed on the image of the flowers flying free of his outstretched hand. He hates the creature, despite how deeply he misses him. 

With a resigned air, he turns unsteady feet toward the school, rushing toward class for no other reason than he hurts too bad and needs distraction. Not that some mind numbing lecture truly has a chance of distracting him from the feeling of his heart breaking again.

* * *

Silently, moodily, Stiles stares down at the round, clear glass pie plate sitting on the counter next to his stove. The scent of sugar, crust, and buttermilk waft up, his eyes snapping closed as he tries to revel in it. As he tries to shut down the nuclear power plant that seems to be powering his maudlin thoughts, hoping to simply enjoy the moment that should be filled with happiness. He has managed to perfectly recreate Mama Stilinski's Buttermilk Pie. He should be brimming with happiness and pride tinged with a fraction of sadness at her memory. 

Instead, he is feeling nothing -but- sadness. Well, sadness and a shocking sense of horror. Because he's not feeling maudlin for the Mother that left this world far too early. He's feeling maudlin for life to return to a world where the supernatural is child's fiction and flashy CG on the big screen. Not something one is so submerged in that they practically breathe it. 

In fact, in this moment, in the deep, dark crevices of his breaking heart, he kinda wishes he had never become friends with Scott. Because that single moment in life cemented his introduction to the supernatural world, even if it didn't happen until years after the fusing of their fateful friendship. He hates himself, of course, for entertaining such a traitorous thought for even a split second. Because thinking that, wishing for a single moment that he had never met Scott, is tantamount to killing his best friend. 

He feels sick. 

His fingers tremble and quake as he struggles to grab the tin foil and wrap the pie plate without burning his poor, pale skin. Once it's wrapped, he settles it carefully into the basket on the table, before turning to the freezer to rummage through it. Silently, he pushes bags of frozen peas, a few black packages of steak, and several long trays of frozen chicken out of the way, grabbing a chilled metal bowl. He carefully pulls it out of the freezer, re-arranges everything, and adds the bowl to the basket as well. 

After a moment of hesitation, he grabs some fresh fruit and a pot of honey, nestling them into the basket as well. He finishes it off with a checkered towel wrapped around a loaf of fresh bread and contents himself with securing the basket lid. In truth, he's not entirely sure -why- he's doing this. Why he's packing up all these little treats and heading out the door of the Stilinski household, but he is. 

Before he can talk himself out of the action, before he can come to his senses and re-think whatever is about to happen, he is strapped into his jeep, the basket secured in the passenger floorboard. With a single, shuddered breath, he backs out of the driveway and aims the old battered Jeep in the direction of Hale House. 

He is not surprised, in the least, when the front door of Hale House is hanging open, Derek outlined in the doorway, a black ink spot with light vaguely illuminating him from behind. Stiles forces himself out of the jeep, moving slow and labored. Forces himself to close one door only to wrench the other open. When he reaches for the basket, he reaches with the wrong hand. Like an idiot. 

He barely has time to hiss in agony before he feels a hand pressing gently against his side. Feels the tendrils of pain seeping out of him.

"Idiot." Derek drawls, his tone half exasperated, half fond. He reaches past the human to grab for the basket, hauling it out easily. Though a brow quirks immediately, Stiles barely manages to spare his Alpha a glance.

"Sometimes. Inside." Stiles snaps softly, tiredly, before closing the door and following the Alpha into the restored house. He nods toward the coffee table, though it was pointless. Derek had already begun to make his way toward the small structure, setting the basket down before plopping easily onto the middle of the couch. Leaving Stiles to choose which side of the werewolf he would rather be squished against. If Stiles actually did what he was probably supposed to, but when is that -ever- the case??

"I've never had a dislocated shoulder before. It's not like I have a damn manual for the Do's and Don't's of this kind of situation, Hale." He mutters wearily, moving to nestle carefully on his knees in such a way, that the coffee table is between him and his Alpha. "Thank you for carrying it for me." He cuts in to whatever snarky comment the older man was probably about to deliver. He is vaguely aware of the audible click of a jaw as his thanks shuts Derek up instantly. 

"Also ..." he draws the word out, slow and steady, using the exhale of it to keep his heart at it's steadily unsteady beat. His heart will never beat the typical rhythm of a human, because he's not typical, but he can keep it as level as he can. "Listen up, Derek, because I am NOT repeating myself, sourwolf." A moment of tired hesitation, and he slips the lid on the basket up. Were he capable of finding humor in anything at the moment, he would probably laugh at the unapologetic way in which Derek actually straightens up on the couch once he gets a good whiff of the scent of the buttermilk pie. Stiles will forever cling to the truth that he knows Derek so damn well, he -knew- his Alpha would like the sour-sweet treat. 

"Is that..??" Derek practically mewls at the prospect of the dessert, Stiles forcing his lips to part in some semblance of a smile.

"Don't interrupt. But yes, it is." Silently Stiles struggles to circumvent his own brain. Struggles to order his thoughts and cling to the minute filter he still possesses. "... I ask your forgiveness, Derek." Stiles speaks the words carefully, slowly. Formally. Because they have to be, in this moment. Because he is not speaking as a human, he's speaking as a member of the Pack. Derek's mouth falls open in surprise, his brows wriggling and writhing until they are a bushy mess of confusion and a tinge of anger. Because Derek Hale always seems to fall back into some form of anger when he doesn't understand something. "I .. I will not apologize for taking the Witch out. I followed the orders I was given, even if I stretched them a little beyond the pale." He sniffs faintly, pulling the items out of the basket and setting them out before the Alpha. The current state of confusion is made all the more obvious by the fact that Derek doesn't reach for the pie. Doesn't move in the slightest, actually. 

"But you were right." He sucks in a deep, hot breath, his fingers tapping absently against the table top as he stares across the distance at the older man. These words hurt a little more than he thought possible, but he knows he must get them out. "She was going to -bleed- you ... and -kill- me. Information that you needed to know." He winces, sucks in another deep breath and tries to hold it until his lungs ache and burn. "You are my Alpha, Derek, and I withheld important information regarding the Pack. So .. please forgive me."

His fingers cease their tapping. His hands still momentarily before his fingers stretch out, palms pressed tightly against the surface of the table. He swallows all nervousness, tamps down on the never-ending flow of energy beneath his skin as he looks straight ahead, into Derek's eyes. Two heart beats, that is all he allows himself. Two careful, surprisingly steady beats of his heart, and then he lowers his gaze. His chin tilts and his head swivels until the long, elegant expanse of his neck is bared to the Alpha Werewolf settled across from him. 

Derek watches, eyes wide, mouth still hanging open, as Stiles submits to him. Stiles. The mouthy human that refuses to back down from anything until it's too late. 

"Uhhh .." The Alpha is incapable of actually forming a coherent word, nothing but the nonsensical placeholder sound spilling out as he continues to stare. At the long, elegant, mole kissed expanse of Stiles' offered neck. A neck he wants to claim, mark up, create blooms of color on alabaster flesh. Lick and suck, bite and scent. His tongue flashes from his mouth, wincing slightly as the edge of the appendage catches on an elongated fang. "I'm sorry. Too. For." The Alpha is straining. Forcing words has never been easy. Even when he was an arrogant hotshot when he was young, words could be hard. Flirting, fooling around, being stupid; -that- was easy. But actually speaking with true intent? He's never liked that, never will. But he's willing to -try-. That should mean something.

Stiles' eyes widen a fraction, before narrowing suspiciously, and Derek really can't blame the human for feeling that way.

"I was an idiot. Before, with the Adderall remark. My mouth running away. I... I'm sorry." He spits the words out venomously, but sincerely. Stiles' hands stop in mid motion as he finally straightens his head and looks the Alpha head on, once more. "Still pissed that you got hurt, Stiles. Still angry that you kept information from me." The Alpha sucks in a deep breath, his cheeks puffing out for a moment. If this was any other time, Stiles would be making bunny or chipmunk jokes, sprawled across the ground guffawing in delight. "... but I understand it. Don't want to, because I kinda -want- to be mad at you, but forgiven." 

It feels as if an eternity passes between them. As if some abysmal abyss stretches out between them, and Stiles is left floundering as he tries to decide how to react. A few more moments of hesitation, and he allows himself to do as he usually would; go with the flow. Ride this rockin' reaction to it's natural conclusion. So, up he goes. He pushes himself clumsily to his feet and rounds the coffee table that separates them. 

There is no further indecision. He falls easily to his knees in front of his Alpha. His sweaty, clammy palms rub absently against his thighs as he rests his ass carefully on the backs of his feet. His eyes do not lower this time. Offering full submission goes against every thing he is made of. Instead, he carefully twists his head. Offers up the cream-colored expanse of his mole-kissed throat and neck. And how does the big bad Alpha react? He fucking WHIMPERS. Like. A. Puppy! A trembling arm extends, shaky hand gently cupping the curve of Stiles' offered neck. Molding to the perfectly proffered, vulnerable and symbolic plane. 

Of course, it means the Alpha can feel the thrumming of Stiles' blood beneath his flesh. Can feel the heat rushing up, over his cool skin. Can even feel the sudden bob of Stiles' throat as he swallows heavily. Because every thing changes, instantly. The air thickens, heavy and honey scented. Charged like static electricity. Stiles can feel a thin sheen of sweat forming on his flesh, beneath the overheated fingers of his Alpha. Almost as one, they each allow their tongues to swipe across their bottom lips. Each tracking the other's movements with dark, unreadable gazes. 

"Uhh .." It's Stiles' turn to spill forth a useless sound as he struggles to gather his wits about him once more. He huffs an agitated breath before he is moving. Extracting his neck from his Alpha's hold. Quickly pushing himself to his feet and putting the coffee table between them again. "So. My Mother's famous Buttermilk pie. For you." He waves a hand absently toward the spoils spread out on the table. "There's also a homemade orange whipped cream to go on it, fresh honey and fresh fruit, and I baked some homemade bread. So, like .. enjoy." He grabs the pie plate and shoves it into Derek's hands before he turns on his heel and practically runs from the house. 

Because there is no way in HELL he is equipped to handle whatever is happening right now. He is firmly of the belief that this is one of those moments where you need to ignore the situation until it goes AWAY. He assumes Derek feels the same way, because the werewolf doesn't come out of the house. Doesn't chase after him or anything, and Stiles is trying very hard not to think about the small nugget of disappointment that lodges in his stomach.

* * *

For three days straight, Stiles finds himself waking to the scent of honeysuckle in his room and all over his jeep, gets to school only to find more anonymous bundles of flowers sitting in his locker, and another packmate bitching at him for it. As if it is somehow within the realm of -his- control that someone is doing all of this. Apparently, his very existence has become a nuisance to those he once called friend and packmate. 

On the fourth day, he slogs himself into school and manages to breathe a sigh of relief. While he had not been able to escape the honeysuckle at home, there is no sign of the sickly sweet bouquets in his locker. He may have let out a rather less than manly squeak of happiness at the absence, but he will never admit to it. 

"Stiles." The clipped, curt sound of Jackson's immaculate voice causes the human to jump ever so slightly in surprise. Some small part of him still wants to ignore the werewolf after the weird, awkward humping thing. He is fully prepared to forget that entire scenario ever happened. "Can I talk to you for a moment, please?" 

The human teen heaves a heavy, silent sigh before he closes his locker and turns toward his packmate. Fully prepared to accept, but he never gets the chance. 

"Mr. Stilinski." Mr. Harris' voice cuts through the chatter that surrounds the two teens, every head in the general vicinity snapping around to see the spastic loser get lectured by the most hated teacher. "My class. Now. I need to discuss your latest assignment with you." Stiles flinches, but for once, manages -NOT- to give a biting remark. Instead, he nods in acknowledgement, before turning back to Jackson.

"I've got a study hall during lunch, and a detention during free period. Try me at work, if you want." He flashes an apologetic smile before he turns and reluctantly drags himself toward the classroom, aka Harris' Hell.

* * *

"Come on, man!" The whining, high pitched voice grates on Stiles' nerves. More so than usual, actually. Harris' little talk had turned into a piercing lecture on Stiles wasted potential accompanied by increasingly vivid threats about his upcoming detentions if he continued to slack off in class. 

All in all, it has left him in a grumpy, sour mood. So much so, that he could probably knock a certain creeper Alpha off the top of the list of grumpy sour assholes. (Though, if he's honest with himself, Stiles would have to admit that Derek has been none of those things lately. Thankfully, or maybe unfortunately, honesty isn't exactly the teen's strong suit.) When the whinging continues, Stiles lets out a snarl that his Pack would be proud of, before abandoning the little office he had been working in. With a deep huff of agitated breath, he steps through the doorway, handsome though tired features pulled into a mask of annoyance.

"For the last time, Dwight, it is not .. that ...... complicated ..." His words fizzle out, his breath hitching silently as he takes in the scene before him. The new guy, a 15 year old with more attitude than brain cells, is standing in front of the cash register caught somewhere between bored and annoyed. On the other side of the counter, stands the most beautiful person that Stiles has ever seen. Now, he is reduced to using the description of -person- in his mind, because he cannot tell if the person is male or female. (And the sudden increase in heartbeat, heavier breaths and sweaty palms would suggest that his body -really- doesn't care what the proper pronoun is. In fact, his mind doesn't really, either. Yes, he would happily continue to refer to the person as PERSON as long as he gets to continue standing there. Staring at the utter, breath taking androgynous beauty before him.)

The person is roughly the same height as Stiles, maybe shorter by about three inches, and he can't help but think that would be -just- short enough that he could look down into the person's eyes, just a little bit, if they were, to say ... kiss ... or something equally as lovely. Their shoulder length hair is dyed a deep, shiny lavender that looks as soft as spun silk. The kind of hair you can run your fingers through while watching a movie. The kind of hair you can tug and pull while kissing. Stiles swallows thickly, allowing his gaze to continue wandering. 

To eyes deep and fathomless, a perfect, clear blue green. Fuck, but he wants to invent a brand new name for that shade of eye color and declare it perfect only for this androgynous stranger. Their form is slender and willowy, even lankier than Stiles' own. But not awkward and gangly. No, gracefully lithe. Stiles wants to trace every curve with his tongue, until the only flavor he can remember is this stranger. He sucks in a deep breath, contemplates holding it until he passes out or wakes up from this odd day dream. Which ever happens first.

"Stiles!" Dwight is petulant and pleading, but Stiles cannot bring himself to care. Or pay attention. He's still taking it all in. The temptingly tapered hips, the long, elegant legs. Even the stranger's clothes give nothing away. Hiphugger jeans that seem sculpted just for the stranger, in RED of all colors. Crimson. Stiles suddenly wonders what the stranger would look like in his favorite red hoodie to match those sinful jeans. A paper thin black shirt stretches across the stranger's torso, long sleeves ending in thumb-holes so that the majority of the palms are covered. 

"What seems to be the problem this time, Dwight?" He drawls the words softly, finally managing to take his gaze off the stranger and look to the employee he's supposed to be on shift with. The younger teen rolls his eyes so hard Stiles mentally pictures all kinds of cartoon sound effects going on. The stranger laughs, ocean eyes glittering with mirth, as if the person has somehow read Stiles' mind and they are silently sharing in the joke together. Stiles grins broad and bright, the action softening and lighting his features in such a way that even Dwight looks momentarily stunned.

"I, uhm ... I think I totally locked the machine again, Stiles. No matter what I do, it never wants to get anything right." The whining tone has returned, and Stiles finds himself beginning to lose what little bit of patience he has left.

"It's a machine, Dwight, not a sentient creature. Unless it's Hal, the only error is human." For once, his sarcasm isn't biting or overly mean, just a tired attempt at playful. When the stranger laughs yet again, all soft and bellish, Stiles feels his cheeks heat with a blush. Feels his smile etch a little deeper, bloom a little fuller. "Come on man, I got this." He claps the younger teen on the shoulder, a polite dismissal as he steps up to the machine. He quickly keys in a few things, his bottom lip falling prey to his teeth as he concentrates. 

"Try not to be too hard on your employee, I believe it is all my fault poor Hal went a bit berserk." Stiles' fingers seize and stutter across the keys when the stranger speaks. Because it's the most beautiful, melodic British accent he's ever heard and it makes him feel tingly all over. It causes heat to flow through his extremeties and paint his cheeks a perfect pink as he glances up from beneath his tawny lashes. 

As gorgeous as the voice is, however, it does nothing to shed any light on the mystery of gender and Stiles -STILL- doesn't care. The stranger is perfection, and that should probably put him on edge given how odd his life has become Post-Werewolf. Instead, it enchants him. Fans the embers of his curiosity.

"Well, I am the machine whisperer, so I'm sure Hal will be in tip top shape. And oh my god, who even -says- that anymore? Even my grandmother wouldn't say something so dated! Tip top .. I can't believe I even -know- those words to speak them. Tip top ... oh my god, why am I -STILL- saying them!?" Stiles groans, his hand flying up to tug at his bangs in frustration and embarrassment. He tries to resist, he really does, but he barely makes it ten seconds before he is peeking up through his lashes, trying to gauge what reaction the Stranger is having to his rambling foolishness. 

What does he see? 

The already flawless creature is being ... even more perfect. This -has- to be a fucking trap! Because the Stranger is standing there with the most exquisite, lambent expression of mirth, innocence, and fondness and it sets Stiles' blood on fire. He is burning from the inside out with a delicate flame of something he has so rarely experienced; the budding hope that someone out there might actually desire him in some way! Here stands a deity that may deem to acknowledge some sense of -WORTH- in him and it fills him with so many warring feelings. 

"Well, I rather like the phrase, actually. It is quirky and different ... I like different." Stiles hands freeze for a moment, before flying toward his face. He presses both palms over his mouth to silence himself. To keep from exclaiming just how quirky and different he is, so obviously the stranger should like HIM! He clears his throat, his cheeks lighting up like an electric current when he sees the bright smile on the stranger grow even brighter. 

"Stiles is, like, the very definition of -different-." Dwight snorts those words, causing Stiles to throw him an angry, hurt look. Yes, he was about to say the very same thing himself, but this is different. He was going to say it playfully, flirty even, but Dwight makes it sound ... wrong. Laughable, mean. Every thing but playful and Stiles has had enough of that through out his life, thank you very much.

"Which is so much better than being the very definition of -Rude-." The Stranger points out so naturally, so -sweetly-, that Dwight merely bobs his head in agreement before disappearing into the back. Stiles blinks several times, eyes wide as saucers, mouth hanging open in a surprised O. 

".. you are officially my hero ..." Nearly a full minute passes before he realizes he has said that aloud, his cheeks heating up even further. He wishes he could step away, join Dwight in the back and forget this day has ever happened, but that is not his life. His life is painful, awkward, weird, and threatened on a daily basis. Before he can say anything else, the sudden, harsh clearing of a throat reverberates from behind the Stranger and Stiles is forcibly reminded that he is at -work-. This is a JOB, a BUSINESS, and he is NOT being paid to flirt. Obviously. He clears his own throat, swallows down his mortification and offers up a weak smile. "Right, then. How about you tell me what order it was that Hal freaked out over?" The stranger giggles at that question.

"I apologize ahead of time for how complicated this is." The Stranger smiles sheepishly, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from a pocket. "But I was given very strict instructions." Slender, pale fingers gracefully smooth the paper across the counter top and Stiles absolutely does NOT (but totally -does-) wonder what those fingers would feel like tracing the length of his torso, along the nape of his neck, tangling desperately in his hair. "Alright, then, luv. Venti Iced Skinny Hazelnut Macchiato, Sugar-Free Syrup, Extra Shot, Light Ice, No Whip." The Stranger carefully enunciates the first order, though Stiles doesn't even begin to type it in. Because WHAT?! Is there such a thing as Sugar-free syrup? Because if so, he's never heard of it. His lips give a valiant effort at not twitching, and he begins to punch the order into the machine. No wonder Hal had freaked the fuck out.

"... sorry, my sister is a bit weird with her coffee lingo. If any of that is wrong, my apologies. Just .. the closest approximation will be fine." Okay, Stiles might actually be a little bit in love with this stranger. Like, Lydia who?? "Caramel Macchiato, Venti, Skim, Extra Shot, Extra-Hot, Extra-Whip, Sugar-Free." Stiles fingers twitch now. Flex and hook as if he will suddenly sprout claws despite the fact that he is very much human still. But if ever there was a time to spontaneously shift without being a shifter, he's pretty sure this would be the defining moment for it to occur. "God, Seth must seem so very high maintenance now. I am so sorry, luv." Seth. Damn it, Seth totally has to be this gorgeous being's significant other. Because in what world is Stiles a contender for anything? None, that's which one. "I can not believe I am kin to these idiots." 

And that? That right there is the sound of Stiles' heart skipping a beat, his breath hitching so very softly with hope or something dangerously close to it. 

"Nah, not idiots, just ... Caffeinated-ly adventurous." Because this is how Stiles rolls, yo! Keep the strange situation with the androgynous deity light and happy. He has to.

"Caffeinated-ly ... adventurous ... oh sweet deity, I LOVE that!" The stranger lights up, beaming at Stiles as if the teen is a comedic GOD and holy hell he wants more of that. Over and over. He wants this beautiful creature to keep looking at him like this. Preferably forever. "You are utterly adorable." And there's that word. The 'A' word that is a one way ticket to the friend-zone that Stiles has existed in since the day he figured out his dick was good for something. Because honestly, who ever wants him?? He expels a silent breath, his gaze falling morosely back to the machine. 

"A Venti Mayan Hot Chocolate, please." The last order is so simple, so normal, that he glances up with a quirked brow to find the stranger blushing. Petal pink hues should not look so fucking kissable, bite-able, and suddenly, Scott's behavior toward Allison makes a hell of a lot more sense though he really doesn't want to take the time to analyze that fact. "I know, such a normal order, yes? I do not drink much coffee, I prefer chocolate. It is so ... sinfully delicious." Yes, Sin. Those lips are full and made for sin! Stiles shakes that train of thought off, smiling faintly as he grabs three cups. 

"So, one for Seth .. and the other two?" He mumbles, capturing the edge of his bottom lip as he waits, sharpie poised.

"Well, for my sister, Tanya. For me .. Sam." Stiles manages not to sigh in agitation, because even the name doesn't answer the question of gender and he is nothing if not plagued with a sense of curiosity that can seem downright bloodthirsty if he can't find answers. Seriously, he has made himself sick before when he could not slake his need to know.

"Alright." He mumbles out a total, glad to see that Hal has behaved himself like a proper gentleman as the receipt is spit out. Once the change has been handed over, Stiles turns to slink toward the various coffee makers, collapsing in on himself as he silently works. 

"... everything alright, Stilinski?" The familiar timbre of Jackson's voice causes him to jump and startle, nearly upending the hot chocolate on himself. The near miss draws a snarl from him, and the other teen has the decency to jerk and stiffen in surprise. Maybe even a little bit of sheepishness showing through his perfectly formed features when Stiles turns to glare at him.

"Since I'm not wearing the extremely hot chocolate I was in the midst of making, I'm doing alright, Jack." He exhales the shortened name in a long, hollow breath before he steps up to the counter. "What can I get you, dude?" He drawls out, Jackson looking the menu over for a moment before Stiles notices his nostrils flaring delicately. His eyes narrow toward the drink that Stiles is still clutching. 

"That smells so damn good. I'll have that, Venti." He flashes a somewhat companionable smile, and Stiles merely nods before he sharpies Jack onto a cup and gives him a total. 

"It'll be just a few minutes. I'm on break in five." Stiles spins on his heels, silently fixing Sam's order. Once he is sure he has it perfect, he turns and steps down to the counter. "Sam." He calls out, eyes crinkling vaguely at the corners as he holds the drinks out. 

"Thank you so very much, Stiles, right?" Sam's thick, sooty lashes flutter and Stiles feels his heart mimic the motion. He forces himself to concentrate, his head nodding dumbly in agreement. "I am so glad you were able to get Hal to cooperate. In thanks, maybe we can grab lunch sometime?" He watches with muted awe as Sam shyly shoves the receipt toward him, name and cellphone number scrawled across the back of it. 

"S-sure .. I'd love that, Sam. See you later." He glances down at the number as Sam walks away, chuckling when he sees several little doodles of various flowers across the boarder of the paper. He carefully tucks it into his back pocket before turning to make Jackson's drink. He suddenly feels as if he's floating. As if the arguments with his pack mates, the strange supernatural creatures running roughshod over his existence, and the general disassociation of his life are giant weights lifted from his shoulders. 

"... okay, whoever that .. girl .. er, guy, whatever, was .... you need to throw that number away, Stiles." Jackson's tight, barely controlled voice is already ruining Stiles' high, and it is taking all of his willpower not to throw the hot beverage all over the asshole werewolf. Packmate or not.

"That is Sam. Funny, gorgeous, and totally laughs at my BS. There is no -way- I'm throwing this number away, Jack. Now, what did you need to talk to me about?" He hands the cup over, nodding toward an empty table. He flinches when the werewolf stomps toward it, looking about two seconds from going into full on bitchy diva mode and Stiles knows he won't be able to handle that. He will have a mental breakdown in the middle of work and while he doesn't necessarily need the money he's making here, he does enjoy having it. Losing this job because of the douchenozzle that used to bully him nearly every day is not in the cards. Not even in the realm of possibility as far as he's concerned. 

"Damn it, Stiles I'm not .. this isn't ..." Jackson tries to stifle a growl, but can't quite manage it. Luckily, there's no one sitting close enough to hear. "I'm not trying to be an asshole right now, Stiles. I'm actually trying to -help- you, man. Please, just ... lose the number. You'll be much happier if you do." When the other teen makes no move to acknowledge his words one way or the other, Jackson sighs loudly. Obnoxiously, put upon, even, before he sips the Mayan Hot Chocolate, staring the other teen down for a moment. Before sighing for real. Tired and weary. "Fine. I want to apologize. I tried to over the phone, but you weren't accepting my calls after the whole .. clearing thing ... and honestly, I can't even blame you for that one, man. But it really isn't my fault. That .. Stiles, that was all -instinct- and not something I actually had control over. I hope you can forgive me." 

For what seems an eternity, Stiles stares at the jock across from him. Watches the fleeting flow of emotion across his perfect features and allows himself to feel something for the werewolf. Pity, sadness, even a bit of understanding. Having dealt with Scott's fury little problem, having spent time with the rag-tag Pack he has come to associate with, he knows that Jackson means it. That he truly is sorry for the instinct that had overtaken him, that had caused him to treat Stiles like ... well, almost like property. He suppresses a shudder at the memory of Jackson Whittemore hiding behind him, then freaking out and practically humping him while screaming that a Unicorn couldn't have him. Sweet deity, but -how- would his friend react if he realized that Stiles had wanted to leave Beacon Hills with the Bittern? He swallows the sound of distress hovering in the back of his throat, clogging it, before he lifts a hand. It is suspended between them, golden brown eyes boring into the werewolf, waiting for a certain reaction that takes ages to appear. Slowly, deliberately, Jackson turns his head. Bares his neck to the human sitting across from him. With a sad, world-weary smile, Stiles gently presses his cool palm to the warm expanse of Jackson's neck. An almost possessive action that is challenging as well as dominate. Because in this moment, Jackson is submitting to him, and Stiles accepts. It is a form of forgiveness, so that he does not have to speak the words. 

"Thank you." The strained whisper should have been harder for the human to hear than it is, but he merely nods his acknowledgment before he pulls his hand away. 

"Not a problem, Jack. I need to get back to it. Just .. text if you need anything." He pushes himself to his feet, nearly jumping in surprise when he feels a strong, firm hand grabbing at the lean muscle of his covered bicep. Feels the faint press of blunted human nails digging into him. His delicate peach-like skin will be sporting bruises in a few short hours, but he ignores that fact for now. Instead, quirks a questioning brow.

"Stiles .... please. Just .. think about what I said earlier, okay? This will not end well. That's not a threat or anything, man .. it's a sad fucking fact." And just like that, the teen turns and abandons the shop, hands wrapped tightly around the cardboard cup of hot chocolate. Stiles glances down at his arm, can already feel the faint tightening of skin where the bruises will soon exist in technicolor yellows and greens, and shakes his head in disbelief. Yes, he has forgiven Jackson for his wolfy nature, but he will be -damned- if he allows that nature to keep him from trying to befriend Sam. In fact, he is already pulling his cellphone out, snatching the receipt with the number so that he can program it in. He is still smarting from the loss of Gisila's number, he will NOT allow this opportunity to be dictated by the Pack as well. 

'Hey, Sam, this is Stiles. Just wanted to make sure you got my number.'

Sweet, simple, to the point. With a feeling of happiness and accomplishment, he shoves his phone back into his pocket and heads toward the counter. The sudden assault of honeysuckle on the air draws his steps up short, nostrils flaring as he searches for the source of the scent. When he can't find it, he isn't put out or even angry. Because even that overwhelming, dreaded aroma isn't enough to dampen his spirits right now.

* * *

'I know, right!? It would be so much easier!' 

Stiles glances down at the text message, snickering as he reads over it. He can feel the slight touch of heat blossoming in his cheeks and it makes him want to hide behind something. Anything. But that would be pointless because he's in a room full of Werewolves. That are -staring- at him. He blinks slowly, realizes that his snicker had apparently interrupted something.

"Oh go ahead, carry on. Don't let me interrupt you, big guy!" He waves his hand absently in Derek's direction, though his eyes don't leave the screen of his phone as he taps out a text with his thumb.

'If I suddenly go silent, it is probably because I'm dead, just FYI. Either killed by boredom, or my friends. It'll be a toss up.' 

"Stiles." Derek growls out, the teen's gaze snapping toward his Alpha's unreadable expression. "If you don't put your phone away, I will break it in half and shove the pieces down your throat." His lips peel back in a silent sneer, showing off his elongated fangs as he threatens. Stiles blinks rapidly when his phone vibrates in his hand.

' What kind of friends do you have? Boredom is the worst way to go! How about you meet me instead? I am sure we can find something fun to get up to.' 

Stiles' eyes go wide and round, sooty lashes fluttering several times. Some part of him fears the action will clear his sight and the text in front of him will be completely different. He cannot even -begin- to believe that the sexy creature that he has been texting would want him to ditch his friends to hang out. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip and looks up in enough time to see Derek advancing on him. 

"Yeah, you know what? It's obvious I'm not really needed here, sourwolf. I know you guys really want to get your shift and fight on, so I'll just leave you to it. See ya, guys!" He waves at them all before he jumps up from his chair and quickly heads for the door. The fact that his back is turned means that he doesn't see the gutted look that crosses Derek's face. Doesn't see the pained expression on Isaac or Scott sort of wilting in on himself. The sheer ANGER on Jackson's face, or the disappointment written across Erica, Danny, and Lydia. 

'-THAT- is the best idea I've heard all week, Sam! How about we meet up somewhere?' 

'Where shall we meet, Stiles?'

'There's a little ice cream place by the park. Meet me there in 30.' 

He jumps into his jeep with a large, wide smile on his features as he speeds away. Though, he is sure not to speed too badly, of course. The last thing he wants is another reason for his Dad to be pissed off at him. But, he manages to go fast enough that he makes it there in 25 minutes, parking the jeep as close to the small stand as he can. 

Imagine his surprise when he sees Sam standing there, waiting for him. As beautiful and glorious and probably unattainable, as ever. Seriously, Stiles feels his heart do this weird, jumpy, swoony thing when Sam's features brighten with the biggest, happiest, most gorgeous smile he has ever seen. And it's all for him. Spastic, skinny, motor-mouth Stiles Stilinski. The teenager everyone has put down in one way or another. He feels warm and tingly all over. 

"Stiles!" Sam bounces lightly on trainer clad feet, a movement that would probably look awkward or silly on someone else, but just looks graceful and happy on Sam. "I am so glad you came!" 

"I wouldn't be anywhere else, Sam." He grins sweetly at his friend, hesitating for only a moment before he offers a hand to Sam. Who takes it eagerly, lacing their fingers gently so they are palm to palm as they grin shyly at one another. "But seriously, thanks for meeting me here. I was surprised when you suggested we hang out." He hadn't meant to be so honest, but the words pop out before he can stop himself. "I mean, no one ever really just wants to hang out with me anymore. Even my best friend prefers everyone else to me, these days. My friends only ever include me in a blanket invitation kind of way." He doesn't want to be brutally honest, because he knows how pathetic it makes him sound. Which, now that he looks back on it, he realizes that it's true. He's fucking pathetic. The useless, hanger-on, token human that is good for nothing. His free hand raises, twists and twines in his bangs and gives them a painful tug. 

The smile that had been glowing on Sam's features evaporates instantly. A pained, deep etched frown takes up residence and Stiles loathes himself for putting it there. Totally and fully -despises- himself for being the reason Sam has stopped smiling because this person is made to smile. Always. 

"Stiles ..." His name has never sounded so soft on another's tongue and it sends a bit of a shiver down his spine. ".. it sounds almost as if you are simply waiting for me to pull my hand away, say gotcha! and maybe proceed to say something horrible about you." He flinches, because those words hit too close to home. Because a large part of himself is waiting for exactly that to happen. For Sam to laugh at him, make some snide comment about how he must be an idiot to think Sam would ever be friends with a loser freak like him. "Oh, Stiles .. how horrid your friends must be, to have allowed you to feel this way." There is genuine anger in Sam's voice, and Stiles really just wants to curl up in that voice and never leave it. (That voice is -almost- as intoxicating and awesome as a certain Alpha's.) 

"It's not like that, Sam. Not really." He sucks in a quivered breath, and his conviction escapes on his exhale because he realizes .. it really -is- that way, isn't it? His hand trembles in Sam's and his lips purse into a sour frown. "Okay, so yeah ... Jackson used to terrorize and bully me on a regular basis and he's never really apologized for it. I mean, there are still days where he treats me like I don't even exist, but that's not that bad."

He hates that he feels more disgusting and ridiculous the more he speaks.

"There's also the fact that Isaac spent a lot of time threatening me and being an overzealous douche since he changed. But I can't really blame him. Suddenly being strong and capable has a way of making an asshole of someone. Plus, Erica beat me over the head with a part of my jeep once and when I blacked out, left me in a dumpster. Never did get an apology for that." He winces, his free hand flying up to probe at his cheekbone as if the damage will still be there or something. 

"Lydia only recently stopped pretending like I didn't even exist. Not her fault though! She's the most popular girl in school, so of -course- an idiotic, spastic loser like -me- would never matter one bit to her. She had way better things to think about." Oh god, he's going to hyperventilate! Because even now, she barely talks to him, and that seems to only be when she's trying to dictate his life, or telling him how much better than him she is. 

"Danny has never been outright mean or anything to me. I mean ... he didn't -ignore- me, you know, but he basically refuses to speak to me sometimes." He bites at the inside of his cheek, drawing a small pearl of blood. "Even when he does speak to me, it's a little condescending." His breath hitches again, his free hand pushing against his forehead. He can feel a headache beginning and he doesn't have the time or patience for this crap. Really, he doesn't. 

"And Derek ... god, do -NOT- get me started on Derek!" He can feel his lips peeling back slightly in a vague approximation of a snarl. His cheeks hallow and his eyes slip to half mast. "I never know where the fuck I actually stand with him! One moment we might be something closely resembling actual friends, and other times I feel like a fucking toy or something he can push around whenever he feels like it." His words are now verbal venom, spat out from the depths of his soul. Half buried truths emerging with the fiery passion of repression. "Because I -know- I'm not good enough, damn it. Half the town has been telling me that as far back as I can remember, so it's not like he and the rest of 'em need to remind me or anything. I'm just ... I'm sick and tired of it all." He deflates. His hand wrenches carefully from Sam's, because he doesn't want to accidentally hurt his friend because of his own sour mood. 

"Stiles ..." Sam's voice is velvet soft, a barely controlled whisper as Stiles finishes pouring out his poor, broken little heart. God, he really does need to just listen to Derek and shut up already, doesn't he? Because life would be so much fucking easier if he just shut up every now and then. "I assure you, I can make this better, luv, if you give me the chance to try. Yes?" Sam reaches out again, finger tips ghosting across one of Stiles' cheeks, feeling the teen shudder minutely in response to the ephemeral touch. The second Sam pulls away, Stiles feels as if he's drowning and may never find his breath again.

"Stiles." His name is spoken with an easy, simple cadence. But as only the Alpha can, that single word is stuffed full of so much indiscernible nuance that it must weigh a hundred pounds on the werewolf's tongue. 

"Oh my god!" He falls back on his usual exclamation of annoyance, fear, and weariness. The three familiar words clunky and tired as he watches Derek approach them. His handsome, scruffy features are settled into the most sour of sour expressions and at any other time, he would've had half a dozen jokes at the ready for this. As it stands, though, he cannot conjure anything more than an exhausted frown for his Alpha. "Dude, what are you even -doing- here??" He is aware of the fact that he's whining, but he is entitled at the moment. Because there isn't a reason Derek should be here. Not in the -least-, damn it!

"Stiles ... I think I will return in a moment. I will get us some shakes?" He glances toward Sam, even more grateful for his friend now than ever. He feels his tongue skate out, across his bottom lip, a smile valiantly trying to make an appearance, but failing. 

"Yeah, sure, that'd be great. Uhm ..." He's surprised, bowled over, even, to find that his mind suddenly doesn't want to work. He has a favorite. He -knows- he has a favorite, but he can't spit it out. Because he's so fucking tired that his mind is nothing but blank white noise at the moment.

"A large cherry limeade shake." Derek spits out almost instantly, causing Stiles to jump in place. His mouth falls open in surprise and he just ... stares .... at the Alpha. Because he can't believe that the sourwolf extraordinaire -remembers- his oddball shake choice. Sam looks at him expectantly, and he nods his head slowly. Forces himself to actually -vocalize- an answer.

"Uh yeah, what my friend said. Thanks, Sam." He flashes an actual, thankful smile to Sam, though his eyes remain on Derek, who still looks sour and uncomfortable. Sam reaches out, places a hand, gentle and kind, on Stiles' shoulder. Neither of them miss the way Derek's eyes zero in on the motion, and while Stiles can't be sure if Sam hears it, he can. The low, deep cheasted growl Derek gives until the hand slides away and Sam walks in the direction of the ice cream stand. "Dude, spill. What the fuck are you doing here?!?" The words are animated. Pissed. In fact, he is well aware that he is practically screaming despite the people milling about. He winces and forces his voice to a more reasonable volume. "I doubt you've -ever- been here before. So, what -plausible- reason is there for you to be here, when I am, when you should be at a pack meeting??" He sucks in a deep breath, holds it until his chest burns because it's better than the alternative; a panic attack.

"YOU are supposed to be at the pack meeting -too-, Stiles, so don't start. And stop calling me dude!" The Alpha doesn't growl or snarl the words as he usually would. He sighs them. A tired, weary sound that pulls at Stiles' heartstrings, though he refuses to let that truth show through. He has every right to be upset right now. "And .. I don't supposed you'd believe .... that Isaac and Lydia demanded ice cream before they run?" The tone of his voice suggests that no, he doesn't expect Stiles to believe it, but the human doesn't have to be able to hear heartbeats to know that he's telling the truth. Because this is the kind of thing that both Isaac and Lydia would stick thier noses into the middle of. Meddling assbutts! 

"What would be the point of me being there, Derek?? As the only ... one like -me- how do I even fit into this? We -both- know I'm just a loud mouth distraction that -no one needs-, so just stop." He reaches up, fingers thrusting into his hair, tugging and twisting the strands until his heart speeds a little in pain. He forces his hands back down to his sides, deflating where he stands. Wilting in on himself. "Just .. get their ice cream and go, Derek." 

The Alpha frowns deeply, darkly, his hands twitching at his sides, as if he is struggling to keep them there. Stiles assumes he is struggling not to reach out and throttle him, unable to understand that he is actually trying his damnedest not to reach up and finger Stiles' hair back into some semblance of normality, trying not to reach up and cup a cheek to reassure him that he is so far beyond needed. Instead, he twists his fingers into the material of his jeans. 

"You don't get to give me orders, Stilinski." He grits out from clamped jaws, his gaze snapping to where Sam has finally made the front of the line. His chin juts out petulantly, using it to jerk his head in Sam's direction. "So. Is -he- the reason you've been distracted all day?" Stiles jerks and stiffens at the word he, causing Derek to look momentarily confused. "... you did know Sam's a guy, right?" Because surely the teen HAD to know! Or did it bother him, that he might have a thing for a guy?? Derek tries to subtly breathe in through his nose, trying to scent the teen. Okay .. there's no anger or disgust there. Just the same level of happiness and arousal he had scented on the teen all day long. He manages not to frown. 

"Honestly? No, I didn't. It never came up. I don't care one way or the other." He smiles when Sam raises a hand to wave toward him, eagerly waving back. "I like him. That's pretty much all that matters. And yeah, he's the reason I've been distracted. We've been texting each other. This .. I think this is supposed to be a date .. and you're ruining it." He barely whispers the last four words, but he -knows- the werewolf will hear him. There's no way he can't with his super-wolfy hearing. 

"I ... damn it, Stiles, I wasn't trying to .. this isn't ... fuck!" He snarls the f-bomb, fangs elongating slightly though he tries to cover it by looking away. Stiles isn't fooled, though. He knows the sight of Derek losing control, as rare as it might be. His hand lifts, prepared to reach out, to try and comfort his friend/Alpha, but the sound of shuffling feet brings his attention back to the moment.

"Here you are, luv. One cherry limeade shake. Apparently, the young woman knows you? She said her name was Harley, and that it must be for Stilinksi." Stiles grins, bright and wide, blushes deeply as he reaches out to grab the Styrofoam cup, holding it tightly between both hands.

"Yeah, that'd be Harley, alright. I've known her since Kindergarten, she's pretty cool. I think me and Jack are the only two that ever order this here." He turns to look at Derek suddenly, lifting a single finger to jab his Alpha in his impossibly chiseled chest. "Remember! Isaac is on a -total- butterscotch kick lately, so get him the Scotchy. Also, Scotty hates anything peanut related right now, so his usual is out. Try fudge or something like that. Lydia probably insisted that she is totally dieting despite -really- not needing it because she -knows- she's a perfect little Goddess. So, get her something totally fatty, like the Supreme Neapolitan. She freakin' -loves- that one. Erica will swear by something fruity, so they have ... oh my god, are you even paying attention!?" He growls, causing Derek to jump in surprise. And blush. Holy mother of godlings everywhere, **_Derek_** freaking **_Hale_** is blushing! 

"It's not like you're shoving an overload of information down my throat and expecting me to retain it or anything, Stiles." He petulantly mutters, and Stiles just rolls his eyes. Because of course, the guy that is in charge chooses now to be adorable beyond means. He huffs in exasperation and shoves his untouched shake into Derek's hands, yanking his phone out with a look of playful disgust toward his Alpha. 

"Ohh, and here I thought, you know, you being the .. -alpha- personality and all, you were so much better than the rest of us. You remind us. All. The. Freakin'. Time!" He smirks wickedly as he pulls up his text screen and hums to himself. Derek scowls angrily, but takes a drink of the shake rather than retaliate. For now. 

"What are you doing, Stiles?" He finally manages to grit out, taking another drink of the shake. Okay, he will never admit it, but this is really, really good. The sour and the sweet just works ... kinda like the buttermilk pie, and just no, he can -NEVER- let Stiles know he has started liking things like this!

"What do you think, sourwolf? Saving your bacon. Again. I'm texting Harley your order, so you don't have to try and memorize it. Or, you know, talk long enough to a stranger to parrot it. Whatever makes it easier for you, big guy." He finishes the text and waits for an affirmation, before he puts his phone away and yanks the shake out of Derek's hands. While he's in the middle of taking a drink. It causes the older man to dribble bright red shake all over his stubbled chin, Stiles smirking ridiculously as he reaches out to rub his thumb across the spot, wiping the shake remnant away. 

"Oh come on, Derek! Someone would think you were raised by -wolves- or something!" His smirk grows bright and more ridiculous when Derek glowers at him. The wolf moves swiftly, snatching the shake out of the teen's hands. He yanks the straw out and flicks it, causing the red goop to splatter across Stiles' cheek and temple. 

"What's your excuse, Stilinski?" He deadpans, though it turns into a bit of a wickedly playful sneer when he reaches up to try and wipe it away. But Sam beats him to it. He reaches up, tutting softly as he fondly runs a napkin across Stiles' face.

"At least his move was an accident. You are just rude." Sam tuts again, causing Derek to shove the shake back into Stiles' hand, even as his own morph into closed, clawed fists at his sides. Stiles' eyes widen a fraction, and he offers a bit of a sheepish smile to Sam. 

"It's nothing, Sam. Der was just playing. He didn't mean anything rude by it. Thanks, though." He is really not used to someone so quick to defend him. It warms him from the inside out.

"If you say so, Stiles. I think we should let your friend go and get his order, yes? We can walk in the park." Sam slides his hand out to gently lace his fingers with Stiles', gaze flicking challengingly toward Derek, though Stiles misses it. 

"Uh, yeah, sure. That, uh .. that sounds like a good idea, I guess. Though .. maybe I should help Derek? I mean, it's going to be a lot to carry back, and I was supposed to be there today, it was kinda rude of me to just bail like that." He fidgets, drawing the straw of his shake into his mouth, with his tongue. Both Derek and Sam track the movement, not bothering to hide the fact. 

Sam reaches out, fingers gently caressing the nape of Stiles' neck and Derek has to turn away from them. Has to point his face in a direction the two won't see because his teeth elongate and his eyes flash red. That is NOT a spot some stupid little prick from outside the Pack should EVER be touching, thank you very much! That spot is a wolf spot, a pack spot ... an ALPHA'S spot, damn it!! He forces himself back to human, forces the wolf down beneath the surface as he turns back toward them. Stiles' eyes have gone slightly glazed and a little distant.

"Stiles." Sam sighs softly, drifting closer to him, nuzzling the tip of his nose against the curve of Stiles' neck and it wrenches a grunt from Derek. Because that is wrong. That is -scenting- for fuck's sake and there is no way in hell this creature has ANY RIGHT TO SCENT HIS STILES!! "We are going to walk in the park, yes? That is why we came out here." Sam bats his thick lashes coyly, and Stiles lips part in a dopey, happy grin. His head bobbing instantly in agreement.

"Right. Walk. I can totally walk. With you. Lets do that." He reaches up to snag Sam's hand, lacing their fingers as he curls into Sam's side, sipping at his shake. Sam turns a smug smirk on Derek, his eyes shining with something mischievous and challenging. Something almost ancient as he turns and leads Stiles away. Derek swallows down a wolfish reaction, his hands still clenched into fists as he turns to head toward the ice cream stand. Just as he's paying for the carriers full of shakes, he catches a voice on the wind.

"Do not worry, Stiles. I am sure your Pack can function with out you for today. There is much for us to discuss, my beautiful boi." Pack. Sam says the word Pack, and Derek feels all the air rush out of his lungs. He snatches the carriers on instinct and turns, dashing to the last spot he had seen Stiles and Sam. The scent of honeysuckle and wet earth nearly makes him gag. He rushes for his car, breathing heavy and fast as he shoves the carriers into the passenger seat, starting the car and yanking his cellphone out.

"Scott! We ... I think we have a big problem. I think Stiles ... was just taken by a Fairy."

* * *

The pack is standing in front of Hale House, each member pissed off and in no way prepared for what may be going on.

"So .. let me get this straight, Derek. You think Sam, the androgynous guy Stiles met at work, might be a Fairy?? Dude, that sounds all kinds of mean!" Scott whines softly, drawing a heated look from the Alpha. 

"Scott, you fucking POTATO!" Jackson roars, launching himself at the other beta. He manages to swipe angry claws down Scott's shoulder before Danny is dragging him off. "He means an honest to god Fairy creature you IDIOT! I TOLD Stiles to lose that freaks number, -twice-, but he wouldn't listen to me. He never fucking listens! For someone so smart, he can be a real idiot sometimes!" Jackson is sneering and snarling at the top of his lungs at the moment, Danny barely able to contain him.

"JACKSON!" Derek uses his Alpha voice, in full swing, and every werewolf cringes and bares their neck on instinct. Good. Because he is not playing. He is NOT pulling any 'punches.' Something has Stiles and there's no way in hell he's going to let that slide. Not now. Not **ever**. No one is taking him from this Pack, not without Stiles explicit consent. (If even then.)

"Enough of this bullshit! Stiles has been taken and you two are fighting like a bunch of fucking PUPS on their first full moon! None of this is helping get our packmate back!" Derek roars in thier faces, eyes and fangs out as he settles the full weight of his judgmental, authoritative gaze on them each in turn. They submit again, whimpering and trembling, necks bared desperately as they fight against his displeasure. 

"We are getting Batman back, ASAFP, if I have to beat you two senseless and we go without you!" Erica howls the words, power and rage burning through her as she allows her change to take over, ready to rip something to pieces for taking the human from them. Each pack member is swimming in blood lust and animal rage and that includes their Alpha. Derek is hiding it better than them, though only by a hair. If he were to be truthful with them, or himself, he would come right out and say that he is terrified. He is scared half out of his mind and trying his best not to speculate what might be happening to the teen at the hands of a Fae. Because they can be anything from sweet, docile house-helpers to terrifyingly powerful, vengeful assholes. Given the Pack's luck, it will totally be the latter. 

"Of course we're getting Stiles back, Erica. No one said otherwise." Lydia speaks in much the same way she does everything else; as if she is bored and far more important than this conversation could ever be.

"God, stop trying to pretend you're unaffected, Lydia. You're just as scared about Stiles as we are." Isaac points out with a bit of a growl, already beginning to change as well. Unable to keep himself human at the moment because Stiles could be hurt .. or worse. The thought of WORSE drags a pained howl from him that only peters out once he feels the comforting hand of his Alpha on his shoulder. 

"That's it, enough! We are wasting time while Stiles is in danger. We have to find him!" Derek doesn't bother with the Alpha voice this time, knowing that they all get it. They all understand. Their friend/packmate is in trouble, none of them need further reminding of this fact. "Alright. Everyone break off into your usual pairings and take your usual patrol routes. If you find anything, howl as loud as you can." 

Scott and Isaac, Lydia and Erica, and Danny and Jackson take off in different directions, leaving Derek standing alone. He stiffly forces himself back around, to stare at his rebuilt family home. He sucks in a deep, quivering breath, eyes bleeding crimson as he whispers.

"If .. if you're there ... really there, watching ... looking out for us ... please, let him be okay." For the first time since he and Laura went on the run after the fire, Derek finds himself praying to his family, his ancestors, to watch over a member of his Pack. And of course, it would have to be Stiles that would invoke such a thing. It's always Stiles.

* * *

Erica's howl is distinctive and would be so even to an outsider of the Pack. Because there is something obviously feminine about it, a softer, higher pitch that echoes all around the woods and draws her Pack toward her immediately. At equal points, each wolf breaks through the trees, snarling and growling, tensed and ready to fight. What they see, however, draws the fight out of them immediately. 

Sam is sitting on a throne of knotted, gnarled wood, more painfully beautiful and androgynous than before. His modern clothes have been changed for a flowing gown of lavender and pale green. The left arm of it is falling down to reveal one shoulder, long hair flowing to tangle with the fabric. His feet are bare, his wrists, ankles, neck and forehead draped in chains of bright, fragrant flowers. Even the faint glimpse of his thighs prove they are wrapped in flower chains as well. 

"About time the Pack arrives." Sam purrs the words, long, slender hands clapping together, the percussive sound ringing through the clearing as the creature stares down the Alpha. "I must say, I did expect your arrival to be sooner, Alpha Hale. I had hoped you would arrive in time for Stiles' crowning, but alas, you are too late for it." Sam coos the words with a saccharine smile across his beautiful features. Were he a werewolf, he would be showing every transformed tooth he could, Derek is sure of it. 

"What ... have you .... done ... with our ... PACKMATE!" Derek grits the words out with soft, simmering fury that seems to register far quicker on the Fae's senses than roaring and growling would have. Because Sam blanches a little, his hands tightening on the arms of his throne momentarily before he manages to school himself once more. Slaps on a mask of derisive amusement as he eyes the transformed Pack. 

"Oh honey, I have done nothing to him .. yet. At least, nothing he did not -ask- for." Erica rushes forward a few steps, snarling with rage when her mind tries to supply all kinds of sordid, horrible things this creature could have done to their friend. "Alpha, keep your bitch in check, please. I will suffer no disrespect in my Court." On reflex, Derek snatches Erica's arm, drags his fanged beta back to keep her from rushing headlong into danger. Because he knows. There is no chance that she would survive an encounter with the fae. None.

"If you .. hurt him ... I will ... rip .. your .. throat ... out .. with my ... teeth!" He snarls and snaps his jaws, feeling his fangs slicing his own bottom lip as his crimson colored eyes try to stare the fairy creature down. He cannot tell what Sam is. There is nothing distinctive in the creature's scent to tell him what he is dealing with, but he knows that he does not like it. No, he fucking **hates** whatever Sam is. With a fiery passion. 

"An empty threat, I believe, Alpha. Because there is nothing an unleashed mutt can do to me. I am far too powerful! I could easily rend --" Sam's words end abruptly on a single inhaled breath as his androgynous features light up. Soften with an aching beauty that would probably inspire sappy sonnets and purple prose to be spouted by anyone else in Derek's place. But, not only is he **_not_** the poetic type, his mind is far too occupied with worrying over Stiles.

"Stiles!" Sam's voice grows thick and warm, a velvet swell of happiness as the sound of leaves whispering and crunching against the ground begins to grow louder. A symphony of giggles and laughter weaves through the clearing and the entire Pack sucks in a singular breath of surprise as Stiles comes dancing into view. Dancing. Not spastic or spazy, not uncoordinated limbs or feet tripping over empty air. 

He dances as if born to it. Twists, turns, extends his lithe frame in such contortions that he looks graceful. Elegant. Professional. If he could achieve one sixteenth of that movement in his day to day life, the students of Beacon Hills would trip over themselves and each other to get to the young man. 

"Red." Derek spits the word from torn, bloodied lips. Because of course, even the fucking fair kind would dress Stiles in red. A pair of blood red leather pants hug the boy's tapered hips, sculpt against his thighs, present the tight, virgin heft of his ass. So basically, the red leather pants look like sin, and those are the only clothes that Stiles actually wears. 

The rest of his body is bare, torso glinting with pale amber powder that smells like ... fuck, it smells like honey dust, honey suckle, and a hint of blackberry. It makes Derek's mouth water, makes his teeth prick his lips again and his claws lengthen to dangerous talons. He nearly shoves them into his own thighs, struggling to keep himself in check. There is NO reason his control should be slipping the way it is! 

Stiles undulates, all sinewy muscle and where the hell had the clumsy boy been hiding that budding development of ab and bicep?? The fact that the honey dust is smeared in the shape of hands of various size, ranging from thimble to larger than Derek's, makes the Alpha feel cold and uncontained all over. For one terror filled moment, he thinks he might actually vibrate right out of his skin. Feels as if his ribs will open like jail cell bars and free the wolf from within, allow it to manifest into a corporeal, feral form and he wouldn't even care! Not if it would mean ripping apart every creature that touched Stiles when they had no right to. 

Stiles' movements eventually lead him to the edge of the throne, where Sam reaches down to gently caress slender fingers through the mess of the boy's hair. As the strands are disturbed, the scent of flowers is almost unbearable. Derek's eyes widen when he realizes that petals have been woven into the dark brown strands. Sam giggles, a single finger tip passing across a red petal.

"Do you like it, Alpha? It is a crown for my beautiful Prince. A prelude to a wedding crown. Red Salvia, a promise to be ever mine. White clover, a promise that he shall always think of me. And of course, honeysuckle ... a bond of love." Each thrust of Sam's finger across a petal provoke soft sounds of happiness and contentment from Stiles and it makes the wolf in Derek howl with wrathful rage. The wolf wishes to bathe in the blood of this interloper, that would risk putting hands on the human of their pack. 

"No!" The Alpha snarls the singular word, infusing it with his anger, his hatred, and his confidence that this creature is wrong. WRONG! Because there is no way that Stiles will go with this thing. No way in hell that Stiles will leave them. Stiles' glazed gaze snaps toward Derek when he speaks, lashes fluttering dramatically, as if seeking to clear something from his vision.

"W-wedding ...?" The human barely manages to form the word, to speak it out loud. It is slurred and misshapen by his open mouth, and for some reason, the slurred quality sets Derek on edge. "Why would there be a wedding?" Stiles blinks lazily, his bare shoulders shifting carefully as if trying to work the muscles. 

"Why else would there be a wedding, dear Stiles?" Sam purrs the words sweetly, fingers dipping down to squeeze the nape of the human's neck and that causes Derek to lunge closer. His claws ache with a need to rip the bastard apart for touching such a wolfish, intimate place. "I shall make you my Prince, darling. To do so, we shall wed in my Court." Sam speaks as if it all makes sense. As if he has explained this already and Stiles had given enthusiastic consent. But no. No. Derek still refuses to believe that.

"Oh ... okay ..." The human murmurs the words so very slowly, that it seems they are being dragged forcefully from him.

"And then, of course, the honeymoon!" Sam claps his hands together, eyes going distant and filling with such lewd promise that Derek wants to get sick. On the spot.

"... honey ....... moon?" Stiles blinks slowly, his head giving a single, heavy jerk to the side, trying to dislodge something in his brain. "I can't, Sam. I just can't." Stiles cheeks are suddenly painted a deep red as he blushes, and Derek can only watch in fascination as the blush curls down his neck, across his shoulders, and spills onto his chest. The sudden rush of heat stimulates the honey dust on the teen's body, making the scent that much more delicious and heady. Derek instantly wants. Badly.

"Oh, but you can, Stiles. And you will. Because I will it to be so, precious. You are my Prince, my Knight. Soon, you will pledge yourself to my Court. And then?" Sam snickers. A sickly sweet laugh that makes every wolf in the clearing shudder. Even Stiles seems to draw into himself a little bit at the sound. "And then, you will be mine, Stiles Stilinski, and you will never say no to anything I ask of you. You. Will belong. To me." The fae enunciates each word carefully, punctuates it with a touch to Stiles' scalp that makes Derek see red again. He starts to charge forward, but gets no more than three steps before he is propelled backward. "Ah-ah-ah, wolfman. This is MY Court. YOU are not invited. Keep your furry little self where you belong."

"Hey ... you don't get to talk about his furry anything." Stiles sounds downright petulant, and Derek has never been happier to hear that tone before. Because it means the human is beginning to act like himself again. Stiles is being Stiles. "He .. you don't ..." Slowly, the resolve in his voice falters and then fizzles out. Stiles lets out a soft, content sigh and curls closer at the foot of the Throne. The movement causes him to inadvertently bare his throat to Sam and Derek wants to kill that fucker RIGHT. THIS. SECOND! He does not deserve that throat, the trust and intimacy it suggests. Derek has -just- gotten Stiles to trust him with such a movement, the Fae has no right to magic that reaction out of him, damn it!

"Now now, Stiles. We have had this discussion, my dear boy. Attend to your mouth while in my presence! Once away, you can speak as you wish. But with me, there will be civility. And none of this rambling nonsense." The entire Pack howls at that. The sound a blood thirsty need to maim and kill when the Fae speaks. Because Sam has basically just told Stiles that he can never be himself again while in his presence. 

"You can't do that to him, damn it! That's ... that's telling Stiles he can never be Stiles!" Scott whimpers and trembles as he speaks, his claws slipping in and out as he struggles to retain some human part of himself. In this moment, Derek is so very proud of him. Because most of the Pack aren't trying for any such thing. They are allowing their wolves full reign. Even he himself is struggling to keep from losing himself to the wildness within at the moment. "Stiles doesn't deserve this, man! He deserves to be happy, not coerced and forced to shut up. If you loved him at -all-, you would NEVER do this to him!" 

Derek kinda wants to snark at that. Throw out some biting comment about how much of an idiot Scott is, if he thinks this fair creature truly cares for Stiles in any way. Silently, in the corners of his own mind, he can almost admit that he is jealous of the younger man. Jealous of the fact that he can still be so naive and hopeful despite the crapshoot life tends to be. 

"Scott." He groans the name, can feel the moment that the younger werewolf forces himself to back down. Move closer to his Alpha to wait for his command. And Derek is going to fail him. ALL of them, actually, because he doesn't have the first clue what he should do. There is magic keeping them from the Throne, which means he can't rip Sam's throat out or any of the other lupine attacks he has mastered over the years. He is useless, unable to plan when he is watching the drugged out look on his friend's face.

"Good boy, Scott. Heel to your Alpha." Sam's words are mocking and almost sickly sweet as he reaches down to weave his nimble fingers into Stiles' hair. Twisting and tugging at the strands until they are wild and gorgeous. Damn it, Derek should be the one getting to do that! He bares his teeth out of habit rather than any actual threat. "Down, boy." Sam sneers at him, before leaning forward in his Throne. "Tell me, Alpha Hale ... do you think Stiles will look this beautiful and debauched when he is under me?" 

Derek roars. Screams a howl to the heavens as he throws himself against the barrier over and over. No matter how hard he rebounds, thrown back, he continues to rush against it. Some part of him hopes that he will manage to destroy the thing separating him from Stiles through sheer will. 

"Yes! That is it, sourwolf! Beat yourself against my barrier!" Sam practically coos with happy laughter, hands clapping excitedly as he sways forward on the Throne. Eyes burning a challenge to the werewolf. 

"... the HELL did you just call him!?" Stiles words are clear, no longer fogged or forced. His eyes are full and clear, not glassy and unseeing. He is also wearing an extraordinarily powerful Bitch Face that makes Derek cheer internally. (It also sends a fresh wave of heat through the werewolf, but he is valiantly ignoring that fact ... for now.) "Who the **HELL** do you think you are? First, you talk about his furry-ness, now you use **MY** word for him? Oh hell to the NAH, bitch!" 

Every head turns to Stiles, who is now standing at the foot of the Throne practically vibrating with anger. Derek tries to tamp down a feeling of pride in his packmate, knowing that he should wait until the situation has improved before he says anything.

"Stiles! How -dare- you speak to me in such a fashion!? I am your - **KING** -. You will never speak to me with such disrespect again!" Sam flings the words desperately at the human, who is staring at him with open hatred at this point.

"Oh, please. If you think all of that is disrespect, you ain't seen nothing yet, flower boy!" Stiles reaches up, ripping the strands of honeysuckle out of his hair and tossing it to the ground. He goes so far as to stomp on the fragrant remnants, snarling in disgust. "And for the record, honeysuckle is the worst fucking thing -ever-! It's gross and clingy and smells so fucking cloying it's worse than decay!" He spits those words out, kicking a tuft of the trampled flower away as he glares at the Fae. "Now, the honey dust isn't bad, but if another little fairy fuck gropes me, I'm going ape shit on all of your kind!" 

At this point, every werewolf has been shocked back to their human forms, even the Alpha. Who has a hand pressed so firmly against his mouth it hurts, but it's all he can do to keep from bursting out into inappropriate laughter. Because this .... **_this_** is Stiles. At his best. At his most **_him_**. 

"I ... how .... what!?" Sam whines, his hands pressed flush against his alabaster cheeks as he struggles to understand what in the world is happening here. How has Stiles managed to break his hold?? How has he managed to conjure up such spiteful, mean words?! "Stiles Stilinski, you will heel at this very moment! Your King Commands it!"

"Oh puh-lease! My -ALPHA- can't even make me heel! Who the hell are you, to think that you can?!" He's outright sneering now, bobbing on the soles of his bare feet, vibrating and bouncing as he stares the fae down. Derek can hear his heart and it is magnificent. It's back to it's obnoxiously wonderful misbeat that is comforting. He's standing strong, unafraid, and Derek really just wants to yank Stiles back, against his chest. Wants to bite and nuzzle at the nape of his neck. Taste the very essence of the younger man.

"This can not be happening! I bound you by your blood and name, damn it! I OWN you!" Sam leaps to his feet, hands clenched into quivering fists as he tries to stare the human down. Stiles doesn't budge. He simply stares back, unblinking, unflinching. "I am Oberon, king of the Fairy and Mommur, and you are nothing but an insignificant speck of humanity! You will heel! You will shut that pretty little mouth of yours and take your place in my Court as I have demanded it!" Stiles features morph instantly.

The confidence and attitude suddenly softens into a sad triumph that tugs at Derek's heart strings. 

"... of course you are. So, your plan was what ... install me in your Court? Fuck me while using me to make Titania jealous? And let me guess ... once she was so enraged that she could not see straight, and once you were properly tired of me, you would have traded? Given me to her, that she may be left in your debt? Fuck you, buddy." Stiles leaps forward, grabbing an edge of the Throne and yanking off a piece of wood. 

"I .. how ... you are every bit as impressive as I expected you to be, Stiles. However, you are still only human and you belong to me." Stiles hisses angrily at that, Jackson twitching somewhere in the group at the reptilian sound, but he does not break rank. No one does. Stiles tilts the hunk of wood, slicing it down his palm until the rusted copper scent of his blood saturates the forest clearing. 

"God. Fuck you and your Court, Oberon. You honestly think you can just come here, onto my Alpha's territory, and take whatever the hell you want? Think again, prick!" Stiles spits on the ground and drops to his knees, staring daggers at the fairy King. "Oh! A little bit of a pointer for you, dude ... blood magick only works if you **_use the right name_**." An almost manic smirk appears on Stiles features as he shoves his bloody palm into the dirt, still clutching the hunk of wood in that hand.

"See, Stiles isn't my real name, so it doesn't net you anything, magic wise. You have no power over me, Oberon ....... or should I say Tronc?" The moment the name leaves Stiles' lips, Oberon sucks in a high pitched breath, his entire form shuddering violently, eyes wide and full of fear. "THAT got your attention, didn't it, dear? I bind you, Tronc. Through blood and earth, Pack and Clan, I bind you!" Stiles screams the words, feeling the painful tingle of magic working through him. "From this time and this place, I bind you! Never may you step foot in North America again!" Oberon screams out in pain, a flash of blood red light flowing from him before he disappears. The throne and fae vanish with him, leaving a nondescript clearing behind.

Stiles exhales a single breath before he pitches forward, fully expecting to get a face full of dirt.

"Stiles ... you little fool .." Derek sighs a breath against his temple as he catches the teenager in his arms before he hits the ground. Stiles manages to murmur something indecipherable before he passes out.

* * *

The world swims back into focus painfully slow. It begins with faint outlines of blurry color and the barest hint of sounds echoing around him. Hushed whispers, anxious breaths and rustling fabric paint a tapestry of rampant movement. It conjures a few jokes that Stiles is far too tired to try and voice at the moment. 

"He's awake!" Scott's apprehensive voice actually breaks in the middle, causing Stiles' eyes to snap open fully. The rush of too bright light is immediately impeded by several faces leaning over him, blocking his view. "God, Stiles, I was afraid you'd never wake up!" 

"Scott, it's only been a few hours." Lydia's voice sounds far away and a little tinny as she reprimands him.

"He .. he's not the only one that was worried." Isaac points out so softly that Stiles wouldn't have been able to hear it, had he not spoken the words directly into his face. "Don't scare me like that again, Stiles." The curly haired teen whimpers, ducking forward to push their foreheads together. Stiles reaches a shaky, weak hand up, carefully cupping the nape of Isaac's neck, squeezing affectionately.

"Sorry, pup, I'll try not to do it again." He reluctantly lets go, watching as those bent over him carefully straighten up. He sucks in a deep breath, wincing faintly as every inch of his body seems to come awake at the same time and scream in pain. Which leads to a whimper that has the others drawing closer to him. Until a red-eyed Alpha appears, pushing them away quickly so that he can look down on the teen. 

"Stiles." Derek growls deeply, eyes narrowed, features contorted in concern he is trying, and failing, to hide. His hands are thrust in front of him, fingers clenching and unclenching into trembling fists. There is nothing for him to hurt, nothing to beat into submission so that Stiles will get better, quicker. "Are you alright?"

Stiles huffs softly, reaches out on impulse to lace his fingers around the Alpha's closest wrist and squeeze vaguely. In the same fashion he had squeezed Isaac's neck. It seems to have the same effect, because Derek visibly relaxes.

"Y-yeah. Just .. k-kinda hurt. All over." He whimpers a second time, feels the tensing of Derek's wrist under his fingers, so he squeezes again as he forces himself to control his breathing. "Breaking Oberon's spell took a lot. Even ... e-even more, to Bind him."

"What the hell were you thinking, Stiles!? First, you befriend a fucking FAIRY, and then it just HAD to be the KING of the assholes, didn't it!? And THEN ... oh, THEN, you had to try and BIND him! Are you **TRYING** to get yourself killed?!" The seething flow of words causes him to flinch. He drops his hand from the Alpha immediately, quaking subtly as he tries to find some way to retreat from the anger rolling off the older man. But, his back is on a couch, there is nowhere for him to go. 

"I .... I ..." It is a rare occasion for Stiles to be at a loss for words, but he is. He hurts, he feels strange, a little off, and now Derek is yelling at him for a situation that isn't really his fault. How was he to know that Sam was actually Oberon, King of the Fae?? Or that he would kidnap him away and try to use blood magic to bind him to the Fae realm?? He clamps his jaws closed, can feel the aching pressure of his lips compressing into a thin white line of raw emotion as he tries to keep control of himself. Yelling back at the Alpha would do -nothing- to make this situation alright. He knows that.

"Don't be such an asshole!" Lydia's usually put together voice sounds pinched and pissed as she levels her best 'curl up and die' glare in Derek's direction. The Alpha's eyes widen in surprise before narrowing in anger. However, before he can say anything, Isaac and Erica have moved between him and Stiles, pushing the Alpha away from the couch as they bare their fangs at him. 

"Back OFF, Derek! He nearly died. The last thing he needs is you yelling at him like this is -his- fault!" Scott's angry voice joins the situation, and Stiles actually -whimpers- at the tone, more than the words. He's retreated into a place of instinct for now. Jackson and Danny carefully maneuver themselves behind the two, Jackson reaching down to gather Stiles into his arms, bride style, Danny moving to put himself between his friends and their Alpha.

"So, you had it figured out from the beginning, Hale?!" Danny snarls at Derek, yellow eyes flashing with his anger. "You knew right from the beginning that Sam was a Fae, let alone the KING OF THE FAE, right? Since you think -Stiles- should've known instantly??"

Jackson leaps over the back of the couch with ease, holding Stiles close to his body, absorbing the impact of their landing so that it doesn't jar his friend too much. He doesn't look back, doesn't respond to the angry, demanding roar of his Alpha. No, at the moment, their packmate is hurt and needs some peace and quiet.

"Because of course, if you expect Stiles to have been able to avoid the blood magic a fucking fairy used on him, you -had- to know it was happening, right Derek? So that means you, what, -let- Stiles walk into this situation where he would've been forced into servitude to the douchebag King? Because if STILES SHOULD'VE KNOWN, you HAD TO KNOW!" Erica's anger throttles up a notch as she throws words at the Alpha, as if they were barbed arrows that could wound him for his implications toward their packmate. 

Derek snarls, lips peeling back, his own fangs fully elongated and razor sharp as he stares from his betas, to the stairs that Jackson is spiriting Stiles up. He itches. Aches and burns to shove his Pack away and follow Jackson. To -reclaim- Stiles, not just from his wayward beta, but from the situation that had almost taken him away. Again. 

First the damned Pantera thought she could woo him away with promises of adventure and children. The fact that Stiles had seemed to come close to letting her enchanting breath sway him had hurt bad enough. To hear Danny say that Stiles had had the chance at being with an ancient Bittern had nearly broken something in Derek. But, Stiles had stayed. He had chosen his pack, chosen to remain a part of that rather than leave. 

To see something as powerful as Oberon want Stiles? That felt like claws piercing his heart. Felt like a wound bleeding internally with no hope of ever healing. Because Stiles had looked so carefree and -happy- while he was dancing in honey dust and innocence and a part of Derek had almost wanted Stiles to say yes. To take Oberon's offer so that he could be happy and free again. All the things he had to abandon once he began running with wolves. God, they've really fucked that poor kid's life up, haven't they!? 

Suddenly, the anger and fight drains from the Alpha. His eyes bleed back to their pale opalescent state, his teeth shorten and his claws disappear. In fact, he basically just slumps where he's standing, withering into himself as he looks each of his betas in the eye. He can read their fear, their insecurities, and their anger. He deserves this, and much worse. He glances toward the stairs, doesn't bother to strain to hear where Jackson has carried Stiles. 

"... tell him I'm sorry. It's not .... it's not his fault." The Alpha turns and rushes from the house, barely leaping from the porch before he has taken to his beta form and run headlong into the woods. Out there, away from the pack, away from the den, he cannot hurt Stiles further with his misplaced anger. He throws his head back and howls his frustration and pain before losing himself to his wild side. 

Inside Jackson's room, Stiles whimpers with physical and emotional pain when he hears Derek's howl. Jackson curls up tighter around his packmate, running fingers gently through Stiles' hair as he tries to sooth and comfort him. 

"It'll be okay, Stiles." Jackson murmurs against the curve of his shoulder. Stiles whimpers and buries himself closer to his friend, silently crying.


	5. Alpha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! 
> 
> This is the basis for Slade:
> 
> http://i.imgur.com/iEQxCRS.jpg
> 
> * * *

Time is a strange ebb and flow for Stiles at present. Each day is marked by a certain routine that never seems to falter. School, work, homework, research, rinse and repeat. Five mandatory pack meeting days have passed without the pack convening. Like, literally, no pack members showed up for a single pack event .... not even the Alpha. Or maybe, -because- no one has seen the Alpha?

After Jackson dragged Stiles to his bed to comfort him, after Derek literally ran from the Hale House to howl in the night, no one has laid eyes on him. Three times, though, they heard his howl. Even Stiles was able to hear the anguish in the call, though none of them felt compelled to seek the hurting werewolf out. In fact, it feels almost like the exact opposite. As if each time he howled, it was to warn them away. To ensure they came nowhere near him. 

Which naturally means that Stiles has tried to do just that! He has spent the past four days and nights, since Derek's last anguished howl, trying to ditch his packmates so that he can go in search of The Alpha. No matter how upset he is with him, their Alpha is in pain and Stiles damn well wants to be there to help him through it. The rest of the pack do not share his sense of urgency where Derek is concerned, however. Instead, they have done every thing they can to guarantee that Stiles -can't- go look for him.

During the day, a pack member always escorts him between classes so that he cannot ditch and go searching. To the point Danny or Jackson even follow him into the bathroom. Yeah, that's not creepy, weird, or invasive at ALL. At night, there are always two pack members discreetly watching his house to make sure that he cannot sneak out and search. His existence has become a life sentence and his home is his jail cell. 

"This is getting ridiculous, Scott. To the point I'm getting pissed ... and you of all people know that is never a good thing, buddy." Stiles grouses softly, the words barely audible but he knows his best friend will hear them from his perch on the Stilinski house roof. Stiles isn't even sure -how- he knows which packmate is out there, but he does. Instinct tells him that Scott is at the window tonight, and Isaac is probably somewhere across the street, watching the front door.

"So. Here is how it's going to be, Scotty." Stiles pushes himself out of his computer chair, flexes his hands at his sides, rolls his shoulders until they crack. Even twists and tilts his head until his neck cracks. There is a bit of residual ache from the Binding, but nothing too bad. Mostly, he's just emotionally exhausted by his imprisonment. "You are going to warn Isaac that I am going to step out the front door in a few. I will step into my jeep, back out of my driveway, and there will not be a -single- member of the Pack trailing me, keeping tabs on me, or in any way trying to dictate where I go or when." His gaze snaps toward his window, where Scott's silhouette has appeared. Stiles licks his lips, and then carefully enunciates his next words. Making damn sure his best friend understands each and every one of them. 

"... because if there is a single -hint- that **any** werewolf is following me ... I will leave the Pack." He pops the K on the end of pack, adding dramatic flair to mark the seriousness of his words without even realizing it. Scott gasps on the other side of the closed window, eyes flashing that deep, vibrant beta yellow as he struggles to keep his wolf at bay. Because as much as Scott hates the idea of Stiles not being around, his Wolf is **LIVID** at the thought that Stiles would leave. Would separate himself from pack, from _family_. 

"S-stiles .." Scott whines, and Stiles has no doubt that Isaac is probably freaking out across the street as well, even if he hasn't heard the conversation, he will be able to sense the emotions roiling off of Scott at the moment. 

"You heard me, Scott. I am sick and fucking tired of this! You guys cannot decide for me that you can keep me here like a damn prisoner in my own home! That you can just -decide- what I can and cannot do. The ONLY one that has ANY influence over my life in that way, is our Alpha. So, either this pack cares about me enough to 'allow' me the same freedoms every single one of you have, or you think so fucking little of me .... that ... that I may as well -not- be Pack." It hurts him, having to speak these words. Having to voice these possible truths that tear at his heart like hooks and barbs. He is laying his deepest, darkest fears out in the light of truth. Because he worries. What if this is exactly what's going on? What if they truly trust and like him so little, that they feel -entitled- to control the puny, pathetic human's life!?

He can feel the first white knuckled grip of panic taking root in his soul and he is valiantly trying to fight it off. Trying to stuff the overwhelming, suffocating feelings back down where they belong before he truly freaks out.

"Please Stiles, no!" Isaac's voice anchors him. Reaches into the raging inferno of fear and pulls him back from the edge. His eyes seek out the source of anguish, seeing Isaac standing just inside his room, hands wringing desperately in front of him as he struggles not to rush the human and latch on. Because they both know nothing short of their Alpha's order would pry Isaac away if that happened, and they really aren't ready for something like that, are they? 

"I'm sorry, Isaac, but .. I'm leaving the pack if this shit doesn't change ASAFP, pup." He can feel it starting. Deep in his hands and his legs. The trembling. He pushes his palms flat against his hips, teeth grinding for a split second as he struggles to anchor himself. To find control. "I can't keep doing this. You guys have taken every thing from me, even if you think you're protecting me. I'm losing my mind." He takes a deep, careful breath and takes a few steps forward. His palms press tighter to his hips, and he glances between his two friends. 

"Leave, now. Tell the rest of the pack what I said, please. I don't want to leave, but I will. I ... I'm sorry, Scotty, Pup .. I'll cut all ties to the Pack if I have to." With that he turns, grabs his pocket items from his computer desk as he passes it. He takes the stairs two at a time and heads for the door. 

By the time he gets to the jeep, twin howls of despair fill the distance and Stiles has to promise himself, several times, that his heart is not breaking. That he did what he had to do, or he would've lost his mind once and for all. And then what good would he be to his friends? His pack family?? 

He turns the key even as his forehead falls to his steering wheel. When did life get so damn complicated?? When had it gotten so far away from him!? He blinks back the first, sadly familiar burn of tears, forcing himself to remain dry eyed as he tries to decide where to start. 

What a stupid thought, of course. He knows exactly where he has to go.

* * *

A steady stream of nonsensical thoughts are spewed from Stiles' lips as he carefully steers his jeep through the edge of the woods. He has memorized every path safe for his baby to navigate, though he truly has no idea where he should actually start in his search for the wayward Alpha. Even after all this time Derek is an enigma to his Pack, no matter how close his betas have gotten to him. So in the end, all Stiles can really do is -wing- it. Because that usually works so fucking well for them.

His hands are cramping from the position on the steering wheel, his teeth grinding until his jaw aches with it. His entire body is an electrical current of pain shocking and searing him. Even now, the Binding is messing with him. Changing and altering little pieces of him, though he has not yet realized this. Magic comes with a price. Something as simple as Mountain Ash requires almost nothing. But to Bind the most powerful Fae and then banish them from a place?? Deep down, Stiles knew that this would bare a heavy price tag, but he was willing to pay it. For the Pack and for himself. At least, he assumes he is willing to pay it. But, that's the thing about mystical, supernatural price tags. Very rarely are you truly prepared for how hefty the cost will be. 

"Your furry little emo ass better be out here, buddy." He grits the words out from clenched jaws, eyes darting back and forth, trying to spy anything helpful in the headlights. It occurs to him moments later that he should've picked a better time to insist on his freedom, but oh well. What's done is done. He will search for a few and then go back home. Tomorrow, he can spend all day combing through the woods, spewing chastisements at the top of his lungs until he has found his Alpha or gone mute trying. (He silently cracks a joke that Derek would definitely prefer the latter, even if he doesn't truly believe that any more. Because every time he closes his eyes, he sees Derek practically braining himself against Oberon's barrier in his desperation to rescue him. He has yet to give himself time to -analyze- that action.) 

"Oh my god, if you make me bring a freakin' pie here to lure you out, I'm going to make life unbearable for you, Derek." He hisses, his bottom lip catching on his teeth, making him hiss all the louder moments before his jeep lurches and shudders ... and then dies. Out of nowhere. The engine sputters, the dash goes dark and his poor baby lurches to a dead stop. He quickly throws it into park, wrenching his door open as he grabs for the small flashlight beside him and crawls out of the vehicle.

"This is a stupid idea, Stiles. Like, really really dumb. Even for you, dude." He continues his softly spoken commentary as he turns the flashlight on and shines the weak beam at the body of his jeep. His features soften in a look of confusion as he continues to look around the vehicle, seeing nothing wrong with it. No reason why it should've died. When he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, he grips the flashlight tighter, long fingers twisting painfully against it as he turns. Quickly shines the beam at every shadow he can see, backing up until he can feel the side of the jeep behind him. Comforting in some weird way. 

"Is that you, Derek!?" He shouts, immediately smacking himself on the temple with the side of the light. What kind of idiot calls out to the darkness? Oh, that's right .... **he** does! Because he's a Grade A Moron!! "Please be you, Derek. This is more than I can take, man." He hefts a deep sigh, feels the tips of his bangs flutter faintly against his forehead and he groans. Everything about this feels wrong and strange. Not for the first time, nor likely the last, he silently curses his impetuous nature, wishing that he had the type of personality that allows for thinking before acting. 

He sucks in a deep, unsteady breath, fortifies himself against his fear, and pushes away from his jeep. He barely makes it past the bumper when he hears a sudden rustling from behind. There is just enough time for him to turn, to face his oncoming doom, when something shoots out of the forest line and barells straight into him. The loudest, most unmaly squeak possible is ejected from him, the flashlight flying end over end, smashing into a tree some feet away. Leaving him staring, terrified, into a pair of feral red eyes. He can feel his heart beating wildly, his breath stopping momentarily. It is not until he actually registers the blood red hue of the eyes, the lack of eyebrows, and the fur across jaws, that he is able to breathe easy. 

"Oh my god, Derek!" He exhales almost aggressively as he allows himself to sag back against the ground. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, hands reaching up to pat at the Alpha's shoulders absently. "One of these days, oh Alpha of mine, you are going to literally scare me to death and you will have no one to blame but your own creeper self!" Stiles grouses, preparing to reach up and rub his hands down his face to try and calm himself, but he never gets the chance. The Alpha whines suddenly, **-desperately-** , and begins to push and prod at Stiles' body. Nudging his shoulder forcefully, pressing his nose into the crook of his neck to scent him, butting his forehead against Stiles' cheek before pressing his ear so forcefully to Stiles' chest, that the teen winces a little bit. He's going to have an Alpha cheek-shaped bruise over his heart in the morning, he's sure of it.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry, eesh! I didn't mean to imply that I will die anytime soon, Derek. I promise." Though he is exasperated, Stiles is also relieved. So much so, that he can feel himself shaking now that he isn't completely on edge. His hands are incapable of staying still, even as he reaches up to run his fingers through Derek's hair, carding against the tacky strands. He tries not to wince at the thought of what is making them tacky, assuming it's a combination of blood, sweat, and mud. A quick, shuddering breath in confirms it, and he wishes to be anywhere but here right now. However, at the same time, he really doesn't. Because here is where Derek is. He has finally managed to find the Alpha and he's okay. It eases the knot of tension in the human's stomach.

"I am so mad at you, Derek. You have no idea, buddy. Like, spitting, screaming, smack you with a solid piece of mountain ash mad, man." He shivers when he feels a faint graze of blunt teeth against the side of his throat, just above the collar of his shirt. "You ran away, Derek. Like .. fuck, just **_DISAPPEARED_** without a word and I've been going out of my mind with worry! And then, to top it all off, your Betas suddenly went overprotective house arrest on my ass, like I couldn't be trusted to remain on my own or something. And some part of me really, **really** wishes you were coherent enough to tell me if this was your doing. Like, did you implement some 'Protect Stiles From Himself Plan' while I wasn't looking? Because your Betas are surprisingly organized about this stuff. Like, -freakishly-, Derek. They have planned schedules based on everyone's strengths. Who is more active at night, who can create the best barrier between me and -everyone else at school-. It's been **planned** , Alpha Mine. And if it didn't directly impact my own life, I would be forced to be impressed." He blinks, a slow, languid wash of his tawny lashes against his cheeks when he realizes that even now, with a half feral Derek Hale pinning him to the ground, he's rambling like a damn idjit. Because this is him. This is what he -does- when he's nervous, excited, relieved ... basically if he is breathing, he is rambling.

However, it hits him in this moment .. that he is missing Derek's terse SHUT UP. He never really thought he would see the day he would miss the Sourwolf, but whatever. Things are getting weird and insane, so why not, right??

"Dude, it is beyond weird that you haven't said shut up. Or told me not to call you Dude." He pouts, momentarily transfixed when a few viscid strands of Derek's bangs ruffle and dance against the Alpha's sweaty forehead. His eyes are wide, he can feel the fact that they are starting to dry out and itch, but he doesn't care. Because he can't stop staring at the werewolf above him. "I .. I still kinda want to hate you, Der. I mean ... these last few months, it feels like every other comment out of you is telling me how stupid, worthless, and disappointing I am and it's starting to do my head in." Okay, so he's fully aware that whatever state Derek is in at the moment, doesn't actually allow for him to respond. If he can even comprehend what's actually being said, though apparently he at least understands the word HEAD because he practically lunges to butt his nose against the side of Stiles' head.

"Easy, buddy. Try not to break the fragile human, yeah?" Hands are suddenly, desperately pawing at him, searching him over for injuries that do not exist, but he's too exhausted to try and stop the roving appendages. "I'm okay, Derek! Honestly! You're the one I'm worried about, big guy. It feels like it's been forever. The Betas miss you, Der ... fuck, -I- miss you. I miss ... I miss you, Alpha." He whispers the word Alpha with soft reverence and Derek whines deep in the back of his throat. The next thing Stiles' knows, the werewolf has climbed completely on top of him, weighing him down with his whole body as he fervently begins to scratch his furry, stubbled cheek against Stiles body. Finding every naked patch of skin he can to mark! Cheek, forehead, sensitive lips, neck, throat, shoulder. He even scrambles down to nose up the edge of Stiles' shirt until the thin strip of his pale abs and happy trail are visible. An undignified, unmanly squeak is ripped from his surprised, pursed lips when the warm heat of a wet tongue lapping at the black path of hair is immediately chased with the furry stubble drag. His hips lift, his stomach muscles contract, and his flailing hands push at his Alpha, all at the same instant. 

"Oh my GOD, Derek! Seriously! Me calling you my ALPHA gets you all ... whatever this is!?" Stiles gasps out in sheer disbelief. There are no words to describe just how surreal this interaction is! The word Alpha once again causes Derek to amp up his reactions. He's now growling from deep in his chest. A near subsonic sound that travels down Stiles' spine, settling in the pit of his stomach in a warm coil of heat. He then begins to wriggle and writhe a little against the teen's trapped body, and Stiles eeps and pushes at him. "Seriously, Derek, you're verging on bad touch here, man!" The Alpha whines soft and deep in the back of his throat, nosing at Stiles' neck as he continues to wriggle against him.

Finally, the teen exhales loud and annoyed, letting his frustration get the better of him. He shoves and rolls at the same time, managing to pry himself out from under the heavy werewolf and bounce to his feet in one graceless, desperate movement.

"Okay, big guy. Try to calm down and relax." He grunts, reaching up to scrub his hands down his face before he watches Derek climb to his feet. Then immediately lunge for him with some strange, feral version of grabby hands. "Nope. Nope .. and a whole lotta NOPE!" The human growls the words, dodging the Alpha's grasp, groaning and grumbling about how this is his life now. Dodging the bad touch of his feral Alpha. "Derek! Once you are back in your right mind, not your pure wolfy mind, you are going to HATE yourself for getting all grabby hands with me, buddy. And then, you're probably going to hate ME, as if I let you or something! In fact, I see a future of threats about teeth and claws looming in the distance. And let me tell you, I am not happy with that, mister!" No sooner does the word HATE leave his mouth, than Stiles flushes. Because Derek is right there. Again. Hands sliding up his sides, nose shoved against his neck. Again.

And then, the Alpha seems to register the final part of his sentence. About not being happy, because a pathetic, needy whimper is expressed by the werewolf, before he practically octopuses himself around the human. His arms wrap around his chest, his legs try to shove against Stiles, his nose quickly replaced by desperate, nipping teeth that are keenly trying to mark Stiles' skin. Almost as if the creature is torn between trying to apologize and demand all at the same time. As if he is sorry for disturbing Stiles' happiness, but also trying to demand that Stiles stay put and let the Alpha do ...... whatever the hell it is he's trying to do. (Stiles has a strong, sneaking suspicion that Derek is trying to lay some kind of claim at the moment and he has no fucking clue how he's supposed to feel about this. Or even what style of claim it might be!)

"DEREK!" The last fragile, tenuous thread of his patience has finally snapped clean in two when he feels a particularly harsh nip to his neck. He can already feel the sticky burn of a bruise forming and he thinks he has never wanted to punch the Alpha so badly before. "Let. Go. NOW." Each word is a growl. Nowhere near as impressive as the guttural sounds the werewolf-octopus could produce, but fierce enough to get his point across. Because Derek immediately separates himself from the human. Right before Stiles' eyes, the Alpha curls into himself. His arms wrap around his own torso, his cheek falls onto his own shoulder, and he begins to whine petulantly. Like a fucking chastised puppy. Because this is what instinct has reduced the mighty Alpha to. 

Somewhere, deep down, Stiles wants to feel sorry for his friend. Because he cannot even -begin- to imagine how this will make him feel, once he's back to his full senses. How embarrassed and depressed it might leave the werewolf feeling. But at the same time, he's sore, annoyed, and more scared than he is really willing to admit. Because this is the first time he has ever seen Derek this reduced to his base instincts. And it's scary as fuck, okay? What if Derek can't come back from this? What if his wild, unbridled behavior ruins the tentative friendship between them?? What if this gets him thrown out of the Pack!? 

He vaguely wonders if he is leaking his emotions all over the werewolf that is still folded in upon himself. Can Derek smell his apprehension? Can he taste the fear wafting all over Stiles' personal space? Can a human contribute to an emotional feedback loop?? It's the human's turn to whine deeply. He reaches out. Paws pathetically at his petulant Alpha, until he feels Derek's shoulder muscles slacken under his touch. Carefully, the Alpha turns into him. Derek slides his arms from his own body, to wrap them deliberately around Stiles and haul him close. He tilts his head and almost tenderly begins to lave his tongue across the mottled bruise that had caused the human to snap. Stiles takes it as an apology, sighing softly.

"It's alright, Derek. I get it. Mostly. Just ... come on, Big Guy." He carefully extricates himself from his Alpha's embrace, reaching down to snag his sweaty arm instead. "Lets get you home, Der. That way, maybe I can stop worrying about you." With a glance at his currently dead jeep, he finally turns and leads Derek back toward Hale House.

* * *

Derek wakes to the sound of birdsong. A single, long trill in the distance reminds him of every cliche horror or drama movie that promised symbolism and angst in equal measure. It is so cliche, in fact, that he finds himself struggling not to slip into maudlin musings as he fights the muzzily tendrils of some awkward, instinctual dream he has awoken from. 

He dreamed that he had lost his mind. That years of careful control over his wild nature had snapped, leaving him no better than a feral, roving Omega in the woods of Beacon Hills. He dreamed that he stumbled upon Stiles when he heard his poor packmate calling out to him, afraid and confused. (Though that is really just Stiles' default setting whenever he has a reason to seek out Derek. No matter how much the Alpha wishes it weren't true. He would give almost anything for the teen to need no excuse to spend time with him.)

When he found Stiles, he had acted .... okay, fuck it, he had apparently dreamed his wolf had practically dry humped the teen while trying to scent mark him. Or, well, just trying to mark him -period-. He feels his tongue flash from his mouth, dragging lazily across his own lips as he tries to remember what Stiles had tasted like in his sleeping fantasies ... only to realize that there is a very distinctive taste lingering across his teeth. It tastes ... oh god, it tastes like sweat and dirt. Like burnt sugar and honey and he can feel the tidal wave of panic crashing against his senses. It tastes like Stiles -smells- and there is no scenario in his panic-stricken mind where that is a good thing. 

Because it means it wasn't a dream. It means that in his most basic, innocently instinctive state, he had accosted his human packmate. The Alpha had bit, licked, and writhed against his human beta shamelessly and his mouth now tastes like bile and ash. He tries to breathe in and his throat burns with regurgitated acid and he fears he will begin to dry heave in horror. What had he done!? How the hell was he, the emotionally constipated and vocabulary-lacking idiot that he is, going to find the **WORDS** to apologize to Stiles for this? On top of **everything** else he knows he must apologize for. Speaking harshly to Stiles, abandoning his Pack to commune with nature in his feral state. And now, what could only be considered unwanted advances while he was out of his mind? Is there any way in which he can actually fuck this up any worse!? 

No sooner has the thought materialized in his mind, than he wants to turn to the nearest wall and bash his head against it. Over and over. Until maybe he has the supreme luxury of forgetting just how stupid he is. Because even thinking a thought like that, given the utter lack of luck and good things in his life, probably has the supernatural ability to make life even worse. And now, he's starting to run an internal thought process that simply smacks of Stiles. Because the human beta has managed to wedge himself beneath Derek's skin like splinters that he cannot pull free. Is not even sure he -wants- to pull free at this point, if he ever dares be truthful with himself. 

Speaking of Stiles .... the Alpha draws in a deep, wary breath and nearly chokes on the overwhelming scent of the teen. Because it permeates everything. It's a sticky-sweet scent lingering over Derek's entire body like a hazy mist and he is horrified to find that he kinda just wants to roll around in it. Throw himself on his back, spread his legs and fucking -roll- in it. Possibly with his tongue hanging out like a damn puppy or something. What the fuck has Stiles done to him!? 

If only it were that easy, though. If only he could simply huff, puff, and find a way to lay the blame square at Stiles' doorstep. But even he is not so cruel as to try and shrug all blame off. He knows that he is the one falling here. He is the one that has somehow managed to completely lose his mooring and in turn, tether himself to the only member of his Pack that is ephemeral. He chokes suddenly, maybe on the scent, maybe on his own spit, he's not even sure any more. Maybe he's still dreaming? Could he actually be that lucky? Could this be the remnants of a dream clinging to his sleep clogged senses, torturing him until he manages to shake free of the last bonds of sleep?? 

Yeah, no. He's never that fucking lucky. His eyes pop open, the world a hazy shade of Crimson that turns his stomach but somehow manages to anchor him in the moment as well. The last vestiges of sleep and confusion bleed away. There is no reason that he should ache. Such stiff pains do not remain in a werewolf, the accelerated healing making lingering pains that are not wounds near non-existent for his kind, but still he feels it. Bone deep and weary, he aches. It is not the delicious familiarity of battle victory or full moon release. It is a foreign entity lodged beneath his outer layers and it is pissing him off. He forces his eyes to return to their natural state as he struggles to take stock of his situation. 

The first thing he is consciously aware of, besides the overwhelming remnants of Stiles' scent clinging to his nose, is the fact that he is in his bed for the first time since he went feral. The familiar scrunch of silken sheets against his stomach, the billowing softness of his pillow mushed against his stubbled cheek. He breathes in deep, momentarily forgetting the torture of what awaits him. He curses mentally and shoves his pillow over the side of the bed, and then nearly whimpers when it does nothing to free him from the ghost of Stiles' presence that is apparently haunting him in his own fucking den. 

With a groan he pushes himself to an achingly upright position, feels the sheets fall into his lap as he scrubs his hand down his face in such a perfect imitation of his human packmate that it leaves a much more familiar ache deep inside of him. The kind that causes his heart to beat erratically, that ratchets up his emotional levels until he has no choice but to feel them pressing at his epidermis, oozing from his pores to blanket the area. 

"Fucking. Stiles." He grits the words out, a lamentation, jaws popping and clicking as teeth gnash momentarily. It is only when he feels the pain of the rattle and pop that he realizes he is dressed. He strives never to sleep with a shirt on, since he is a furnace wrapped in bedding most times, but he cannot deny the material constriction across his shoulders and stomach. In fact, now that he is upright and fighting through his disoriented frustration, he can feel the telltale criss-cross discomfiture of clothing marks. The red marks of material digging into the flesh, until you're marked with a tapestry that speaks of movement in your sleep. In his case, it was usually nightmares, which was another reason to sleep sans shirt. No reason to twist oneself into a red lined mess, after all. 

He reaches down, fingers plucking at the material that encases his torso as an afterthought as he tries to map out what he needs to do today. Things like mass text the Pack to let them know he's okay. Formulate the words to try and apologize for what he had done to Stiles the night before. Get something to eat that was actually -cooked- and not warm blood and raw meat between his teeth. It is only as his thoughts wind down that he realizes his nose is buried in the material encasing him. Which is why he finally huffs out a breath and bothers to figure out -what- he's wearing. His eyes widen to almost comical sizes when he realizes his fingers are twisted heavily in red material a few sizes too small for his broad shoulders and defined torso. Red. Fucking R.E.D. That right there should have told him exactly what it is he is wearing, and why he cannot seem to fish his nose out of the fragrant material. As if to reassure himself that he's not seeing (smelling) things that are not truly there, he manages to raise his free hand and trace the collar of the shirt. Hoodie. It's Stiles' red fucking HOODIE. Because of course. That is why he cannot chase the scent from his nose, because he is drowning in it. He snatches the material with both hands, fights to pry it up and over his head, but his movements are rushed and without grace. He feels the almost threadbare material catch on his skin in warm, soft patches, feels it tangle and twist in his now shaking hands. 

As if his complete and utter humiliation were not enough, he actually whines when he realizes that his hands and arms are shaking with the sheer amount of exertion it is taking to try and fight his way free of the too small material. In fact, he nearly shreds the damn article of clothing before he finally manages to pull it off. Like a petulant child, he twists the garment into a wadded ball of offense before he casts it as far across the room as he can. Maybe, with it far flung, that -scent- will dissipate and return to him the normal functioning of his body and mind so that he can kick himself into gear. 

No sooner do his senses finally begin to even out, however, than he hears the lone birdsong once more. The trill is as resonant and sharp as an eagle's cry and Derek finds himself irrationally pissed off by the cutting call. To the point that his top lip curls in agitation and he releases a chest-rumbling growl to vocalize his irritation at the state of his early morning. And then promptly blinks when it sounds like the bird lets out another crying call. That sounds chastising. A morning bird is -bitching- at the Alpha for growling at it. 

"... how is this my life?" He mutters, the words an almost perfect impression of Stiles. So much so that he feels that clench in his chest again. His eyes stray toward the heap of red fabric on his bedroom floor and he wants to rip it to shreds. Rend it with tooth and claw until it is nothing more than tattered bits of fabric trapped against his skin and in his teeth. As if that will somehow solve all his problems and restore the delicate balance his life has existed in since he saw Scott and Stiles searching for an inhaler in the woods. "... I'm going to go insane over a fucking hoodie." With those near hysterical words uttered to the empty room, he pushes himself to his feet and wobbles slightly. Okay, so, a little more unfit than he originally assumed. Next time he loses it and goes completely native, he needs to try and remember to take better care of himself. (And yes, he is -perfectly- aware that this is a -perfectly- absurd notion, since the very definition of a werewolf going feral means they are no longer really capable of rational thought or taking care of themselves. Now leave him to his mental delusions, thank you very -much-!)

He finds himself glued to the spot. Unable to put one foot in front of the other as he listens to the bird calling sadly, still. It grates against his raw nerve endings, rings in his ears until he idly wonders if plugging them like a five year old and humming at the top of his lungs will be preferable to the sound. After all, what is dignity when he feels his eyes straying toward the discarded hoodie on the ground?? His tongue slides along an elongated fang, feeling the familiar burn of flesh slicing open cleanly, the coppery taste of blood ruffling his inner beast a bit. 

"... this is a bad idea." Derek growls the words, hoping to somehow manage to talk himself out of what he's about to do. Because it is a horrible, undignified thought. The kind of action that would cause Stiles to crack a dog joke, thus making Derek want to smack him upside his human skull. "If any of the Pack saw this, you would never live it down. The dog jokes would be endless, and you would -deserve- it. You're the freakin' ALPHA! This .. is ... a stupid ... idea ...." He is huffing quick, energetic breaths through his nose as he speaks to himself. Each inhale bringing Stiles' scent deeper into his hindbrain, each exhale revving him up further as said hindbrain tries to get the better of him. And finally succeeds. 

He feels the shift instantly take over. Feels the rush of adrenaline and instinct as he shifts to his Beta form. And then promptly pounces the crumpled hoodie. Some distant part of himself is aware enough to realize that he would probably be wagging his tail if he had one at the moment. Because once again, he's acting like a big damn puppy. He digs his clawed fingers into the red material, feeling the slow separation of each fiber as the claws slice through the garment. His mouth opens, powerful jaws parting only to immediately snap a mouthful of red up. Teeth rend and tear, a few pieces of fabric sticking in his sharp fangs, scratching at his inner cheeks as he hums and growls enthusiastically. 

"Holy."  
"Hell!?" 

The first word is uttered by a gape-mouthed Lydia, the second whined by a bright-eyed Isaac. Derek huffs and snorts, shakes his head almost lazily before he turns his attention back toward the shredded garment.

"... I'm not hallucinating, right?" Isaac whispers with an almost terrified sense of awe as he watches his wolfed out Alpha continue to tear the red lump of material into strips and pieces. "Ou-our Alpha ... is biting .. a hoodie ... right!?" The words stop and stutter, almost refusing to come as he continues to watch the strange behavior. He manages to pry his eyes from the sight long enough to glance at Lydia. Who is smirking in that cold, calculating way. He almost expects her to pull out her cellphone and snap a few pictures for future blackmail. Not that he thinks Derek would really let anyone blackmail him, especially not a member of his Pack. 

"Not just -any- hoodie, Isaac." Lydia practically purrs as she points that out. She breathes in deep, and motions for him to do the same.

"Oh my GOD, that's STILES' hoodie!" The beta yelps the words and then nearly jumps out of his skin when the sound of Stiles' name causes Derek to snarl. Though the intimidating nature of the snarl is far diminished by several factors; 

1) The usually fierce sound is muffled by the fact that Derek's face is **-buried-** in the hoodie, still.  
2) Even an Alpha can't be intimidating when he has little wisps of red fabric **stuck in his teeth**.  
3) Isaac is 100% sure that his Alpha would be wagging his tail and yipping like a puppy if he were physically capable of doing so.

"What in Gods name are you doing, Derek? First, you blame all this crap on Stiles! Then, you run off and leave us for all this time, doing God only knows what. And when we finally realize you're back, we find you wolfed out tearing apart a hoodie??" Lydia struggles to try and make sense of what can be described as nothing less than a senseless situation. Because she really cannot fathom a single layer of logic to whatever has been happening lately. Derek's behavior makes no sense! And yeah, sure, okay, so none of them really -understand- their Alpha. That is a truth every beta has been forced to accept because Derek is a hard man to read. (Unless you happen to be a talkative ADHD teenager fully equipped with sarcasm and unwavering loyalty.) But understand him or not, this feral behavior is obviously outside of the norm for the born werewolf that usually exhibits such flawless control. 

"D-Derek .." Isaac's voice is soft, full of trepidation as he prepares to ask a question that he is afraid to get an answer to. Because he doesn't know his Alpha well enough to assume that he will get the answer he -wants-. "Did .. Is ... fuck, is Stiles okay? You .. you didn't ..." He trails off, sucking in several quick, desperate breaths as he struggles to stave off panic. Because he honestly doesn't want to -have- to ask if the teen is okay, but he's worried for his friend.

"Isaac!" It is not the Alpha that answers, but a vexed Lydia. She flips her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder, before carefully folding her arms over her chest and giving Isaac her best bitch face. "Are you serious with this? Because if you are, I might have to reconsider our association. Obviously, Derek did not hurt Stiles. Our Alpha would probably go full feral and .. well, violent, if he had caused any actual harm to Stiles." The male beta stiffens where he stands, transfers weight from foot to foot until he is feeling calm again. 

"Yeah, okay. You're right. If Derek had hurt Stiles ... we probably wouldn't have an Alpha anymore." Isaac winces as he admits that. Because each member of the Pack knows that to be true. If Stiles were hurt in any way by Derek, the Alpha would probably kill himself in contrition. "Well then .. why in the world is he ripping Stiles' hoodie to pieces? Got an answer for -that-, Lydia?" He has shot right past matter-of-fact in tone, skirting petulant and mean as he looks between his Alpha and the female beta.

Derek chuffs and snorts, turning to jump back up, onto his bed. He noses at his pillow until he has worked an edge of it up. He then carefully stashes a few shredded pieces of red material there, letting the pillow fall back into place. Hiding his little treasure for now. 

"Umm ... I think -that- is the reason, Isaac." Lydia barely manages not to giggle as she points a long, perfectly manicured digit toward the new hiding spot. Derek chuffs again before tackling the remaining pieces of fabric. He grabs as much up in his mouth as he can before he darts out of the room, leaving the two betas behind.

"... wha?? Is he ... is he stashing the hoodie pieces around the house?!" Isaac yelps and actually jumps in his place for a moment, trying to contain his bewildered amusement. "Holy hell, is our Alpha scenting his den with Stiles' hoodie? This .. this is too much!" Isaac is practically vibrating at this point, his hands wringing in front of him as he fights back near hysterical laughter. He's missing the days when everything made sense! When they are the only supernatural things in Beacon Hills on a regular basis. His hands lift, palms plastering to his cheeks for a second before he sighs in annoyance.

"Okay. You know what? This is above my rank, Lydia. A moon crazed, near-feral Alpha is NOT something I am prepared to deal with! In fact, I vote we leave and let Stiles come and handle him. Because at least Stiles won't get eaten or tackled or lord only knows what. So. Later!" He spins on his heels, hands gripped tight in the edge of his shirt as he practically runs from Hale House. Determined to try and forget the trauma of watching his Alpha act like an excited puppy. Lydia rolls her eyes so hard she thinks she can hear them rattle ... before she shrugs her shoulders and follows after him. Firmly agreeing to let the human handle the Alpha, at this point.

* * *

Stiles yawns, jaws popping softly. For a split second, he worries that the skin at the corners of his lips will crack, but he manages to dial the action back before anything too painful occurs. In the half hour it took him to relocate his jeep in the light of day, he made himself a promise; he will never spend the night babysitting a feral, touch-starved Alpha again. He doesn't care how much he, well, -cares- about Derek. He will never spend another night like the one previous if he can help it. The cursory glance he had managed for himself in Derek's bathroom mirror had revealed no less than six bruises across his torso, and that was just the front. He's a little scared to think of how many different places the half-crazed Alpha may have marked him in the course of the night. He isn't really chomping at the bit to find out, either. (To be fair/truthful, he's even less prepared to try and understand -why- Derek felt the need to play happy chew toy while stuck in his baser instincts. That way, Stiles is pretty sure, lay madness and if there is one thing he -definitely- doesn't need in his life, it's more madness.) 

He taps his fingers against his steering wheel, an endless litany of jittery energy that refuses to burn away. Of course, part of that might be because he hasn't taken his meds this morning, but whatever. He has bigger fish to fry, so to speak. Namely errands. Like finding food, making sure that Scott and Isaac are okay after he threatened to leave the Pack, and making sure that said Pack is okay and made aware of the fact that their Alpha has been located. Food, though. As per usual, that's his top priority. So, he continues to drum his fingers in some abstract pattern of music as he waits for the stop light to turn green, his mind a rampant divergence of ideas that he's struggling to order somehow. In the end, he decides that the best bet would be to cook something. Sure, he could go the whole pick up something greasy and quick, but he just can't bring himself to do that. Derek has been missing for what feels like an eternity, so of course he wants to cook his Alpha something homey and good. 

"Oh, for the love of .. dude! It's green!" Stiles grouses to the empty air around him, since his windows are up and there's no chance of the sleek black Impala in front of him actually hearing the angry words. He just barely manages to refrain from laying on the horn, saved by the vehicle suddenly tearing off, through the green light, giving him leave to roll forward. 

Another half an hour and the jeep is perfectly parked at the supermarket. Usually, Stiles would have a well thought out, bullet pointed game plan in mind, but he can barely string two thoughts together with any form of cohesiveness at the moment, so he knows that he will have to rely on his third greatest talent; winging it! Okay, so if you consult the Pack, they would probably laugh at the thought of Stiles being capable of winging anything successfully, but they're a bunch of furry little liars that don't know the first damn thing they are talking about!

He huffs a tired breath, his bangs waving lazily against his forehead as he grabs a buggy at the front of the store and struggles to remember the layout of the place. Sure, he's been here hundreds of times over the years, thousands, even, probably, but that is while he was properly medicated and not chasing half a dozen different thoughts simultaneously. And -definitely- not when he feels as if the excess of energy thrumming under his skin is going to set him off like a firecracker to burn and fizzle out into nothing. Such a cheery thought, right?? 

"Stupid ... damn .. can't believe ... out of his tail-wagging little mind ..." He mutters bits and pieces of a conversation with himself as he starts at the closest aisle and decides to simply go up and down each and every one of them until he is satisfied that he has enough food to feed the small army he calls Friends/Pack. Not the most elegant or methodical of approaches, but it should serve him well for now. 

A sentiment he is rethinking when he's been in the store for nearly an hour and has had to restructure his buggy three different times to make sure that he wasn't going to return to Hale House and prepare a sloppy amalgamation of brinner luncheon. (Yeah, basically a mix of all three daily meals that would have proven utter chaos, and that is something else he needs less of, not more.) He glances down at his cart for what feels like the thirtieth time and curses under his breath as he grabs two loaves of french bread and shoves them back on the shelf. 

"Focus, damn it." He hisses the words, tongue scraping across his chapped bottom lip as he fights to stay on track. One last look at the buggy and he leaves the bread aisle completely, turning down the fresh produce, fruit, and meat section. He huffs an annoyed breath, eyes squinted in utter betrayal at this part of the store. Because it feels as if it has been designed to fuck with his attention deficit, given the bright, loud, overly cluttered arrangement that seems cataloged by chaos rather than using any form of logic. He kind of wants to grab one of everything and put on a show that would make sense to no mind but his own, but he still knows his priorities. Even if he's having trouble sticking to them. 

"Do you do this often, then?" A surprisingly deep voice yanks him from his internal monologue, causing him to spin around and face the source. Totally -not- what he was expecting, given the gruffness of the voice. A somewhat androgynous male with tats across the pale expanse of his neck, pierced lip and nose. His long black hair is feathered around his pretty features, eyes the color of blue ice are sharp and intelligent. The kind of eyes that penetrate and see everything. The kind of eyes that can strip you bare and leave you totally okay with the fact. 

The one thing that really just throws Stiles for a loop, though? He can tell, almost instantly ... that the young man before him is a werewolf. And he's wearing a -RED- fucking hooded shirt! You know, the kind of thing Stiles would wear to fuck with his Pack, this werewolf is wearing as openly as you please. It actually endears him to Stiles. 

"Uhm, sorry, dude, but without a little clarification, I have no clue how to answer that. It could be any of a thousand things, you know?" He grabs a bundle of bananas and slides them into a clear produce bag before easing them into his cart.

"Oh, right. Talking to yourself, I mean. First, screaming at the stoplight, then something about tail-wagging and now focusing and ... it's, like, a LOT of conversations to be having with yourself, man." Stiles blinks languidly, his mind nearly freezing for a second as he tries to process everything.

"DUDE! That Impala was yours?! God, you lucky S.O.B.! As much as I -love- my baby, I'd trade her in for an Impala in a freakin' heartbeat." He hefts a deep, wistful sigh, and the stranger merely quirks a brow in a teasing manner. Stiles first thought .. yeah, nowhere near as impressive or expressive as Derek's brows, but not everyone has the secret superpower of eyebrow communication. Or the need to use it. Or even the ability to translate it. 

"Seriously? -That- is what you got from all of that? I bet you've been threatened with being committed a few times, huh?" This actually causes Stiles to throw his head back and laugh. Not some acerbic or sarcastic little fake laugh, but a true, belly rumbling, giddy laugh that causes the stranger to crack a smile that nearly steals Stiles' breath. Because the werewolf is hotter than Hades and honestly, at this point, Stiles is starting to get a little offended. Does the Bite seriously alter you enough to be genetically perfect or something!?

"Ugh. Actually, what I'm -really- getting from all of this is that I need to get a freakin' full moon upgrade." He mumbles the words bitterly beneath his breath as he moves forward to grab three bell peppers and shove them into a produce bag as well. He misses the sudden flash of red eyes and popped fangs as the stranger struggles to keep the burning need of his Alpha instinct to take and claim, under control. He doesn't need to know that much about Stiles for his instincts to recognize a young man that would make one -hell- of a wolf and packmate. To the fact that he wants to take first and sort out the messy details later. The stranger manages to force his fangs back, force his eyes to return to their natural ice blue before he follows after Stiles.

"You, uh .. yeah, you smell and look like you'd make one hell of a good, erm, upgrade." The stranger swallows heavily, trying to keep his instincts from rearing at the idea. He can only imagine how delicious the boy would taste. How gorgeous he would be all coiled muscle and mischievous nature on the full moon. Yeah, he -really- wants to possess that. Call it -his-. He cracks his neck lightly and struggles to get back on track. On target. "Not why I'm here, though. I, uhm ... ugh." He wrinkles his nose, looks around quickly to ensure they are alone, and then he quickly presents his neck to Stiles. Who can do little more than stare on in confused shock. Okay, what the -hell- is going on here these days? Why has Beacon Hills lost it's damn mind!? Or, at least, all of the Supernatural creatures passing through, seem to have lost their minds. "Forgive me, Lord Stilinski, but I am here to present myself to you and your Pack. Or, at least, let you know that I am here. I was born in Beacon Hills, and my sister still lives here. She .. she's pregnant, and also human. I'm just here to visit and check up on her. Do I have your permission to stay for the duration of my visit, or should I have her meet me a few towns over?" 

Stiles continues to stare, looking dumbfounded and momentarily overwhelmed. First, Gisila mistakes this for his territory, and now a freakin' Werewolf is presenting himself to him as if he's the damn Alpha of Beacon Hills or something! Oh, and Lord!? When the hell was he inducted into nobility?? 

"Okay. Whoa. Time out, buddy. How the hell do you know my name? WHY are you calling me Lord? And you -know- I'm not a werewolf, let alone an -Alpha-, so why the hell are you asking my permission for -anything-?? I don't represent my Pack in any way, man." He manages to keep from squeaking a few of the words, eyes dancing in every direction to make sure that no one is eavesdropping on their unusual conversation. The stranger's bottom lip juts out in a light pout, and Stiles is really hard pressed not to stare at his mouth the way he would Derek's. For reasons. 

"Why wouldn't I know your name, Lord Stilinski? You're .. well, I mean, you're -you-! The boy who runs with wolves! Lord of the Beacon, defender and protector of the Hills. The boy that summons Unicorns and banished the Arrogant One! The human that caught the attention of a damn Bittern, for christ's sakes!" Each new title or description seems to add a note of awe to the stranger's voice and Stiles realizes that he's blushing about three seconds too late for him to try and stop it. But come on, those are a lot of badass titles!! Him, the pathetic, useless human! He bites at his bottom lip, feeling the flesh heat and swell a little at the ministrations as he tries to stare the handsome werewolf down. It nearly causes him to gasp when it works. The stranger quickly drops his gaze, as if afraid that -he- will somehow -challenge- Stiles! "As for a werewolf .. no, you're no werewolf, but you're an Alpha -something-, m'lord." 

Stiles reaches up to tug at his bangs, momentarily considers pinching himself to make sure that this is really happening, but ultimately decides that that would be a terrible display of foolishness in front of the other man. 

"You know, it's only fair that I know your name." So not what he meant to say, but a good starting point anyway. The werewolf pulls himself up to his full height, only to bare his neck a second time. 

"I'm Slade Skellen, Alpha of the Skellen Pack." Stiles' eyes widen a fraction. Alpha. The guy isn't just a freakin' werewolf, he's an Alpha! Oh man, Derek is going to lose his shit once he realizes that there's an Alpha in his territory! 

"Slade is totally -not- your real name, is it?" Damn it, mouth, cooperate already! Again, not what he meant to say, but it causes Slade to smile in such a warm, openly inviting way that Stiles' stomach does a bit of an awkward somersault.

"No more so than I'm sure Stiles is -your- real name. My name is Welsh, very few vowels, -very- hard to pronounce. I like Slade. It sounds cool. Kinda Badass." Stiles bursts out into happy laughter, his entire form relaxing for the first time since the Alpha had engaged him in conversation. 

"Yeah, I totally get that. Mine's not as hard as most, but it's still way too awkward and mush-mouth, so I chose Stiles." He holds his hand out, grinning. Slade takes it immediately, giving it a friendly shake before pulling back. "It's nice to meet you, Slade. I'm sure my Alpha will have no trouble with you visiting your sister, but you know that you will probably still have to present to him, right?" Slade wrinkles his nose and sighs, but nods.

"Yeah, I figured it would be too easy to just report to you. Gisila told me to expect Hale to make a big fuss if I didn't at least say hi to him." Stiles nearly trips over his own feet, eyes wide as saucers. He feels his stomach roil and flip, his hands shaking slightly as he yanks his phone out.

"You know the Pantera, Gisila?" When the Alpha nods in confirmation, Stiles releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Dude! I don't suppose you could give me her number? I .. well, lets just say I lost it." The Alpha quirks a brow again, but doesn't question the odd phrasing of his words. He just pulls his phone out and calls out the number. Stiles quickly adds it into his phone, labeling it as Blonde Bombshell. Sure, it's not likely to fool Derek if he really stops to think about it, but it's better than just labeling it as Gisila. After all, Derek had had no compunction erasing her completely last time, he's sure his Alpha would do the exact same now if he thought he could get away with it. 

"God, thank you so -much-, Slade! I've really missed her!" Slade reaches up to toy with the side of his hood, chuckling lightly.

"Yeah, she's really missed you too, Lord Stilinski. I adore her to pieces, but one more phone call with her harping on about her cute funny man and I would probably have to take a vacation from answering her calls and that would just be rude." Stiles blushes so heavily that he wonders if it would register as a fever with one of those topical thermometers. He scuffs his trainer across the tiled floor, groaning slightly.

"Dude. First thing's first. Please stop calling me Lord. No one will know who you mean, least of all me. Just call me Stiles, okay? And I'll call you Slade. Sound good?" When the werewolf nods, Stiles relaxes again. "Okay, cool. Now, second thing .. is there some way I can reach you, once I've had a conversation with my Alpha? I wouldn't presume to ask for your number or anything." The Alpha softens and takes a few steps closer to the human, causing Stiles to stiffen a little. He's not sure why, but the closeness of the Alpha makes him want to squirm. It makes him feel uncomfortable in a strangely good way. Which doesn't make any kind of sense to the human. 

"You would be well within your rights to demand not only my number, but the location of my sister, as she is living within your territory. Thank you, Stiles, for your consideration. I would rather her whereabouts not be known. Though she chose to move away from the Pack .. well, she's my sister. She'll always be Pack." Stiles smiles warmly, nodding in understanding. He knows how it can be.

"I can understand that, man. It's not in my nature to demand things just because I have a right to. That's the kind of bastard I -never- want to be." They exchange phones, putting each other's names and numbers in before handing them back. 

"And that is why you would do so well with the Bite, Stiles. You'd be one hell of an Alpha werewolf." Stiles ducks his head, squeezes his eyes closed for a single time before shoving the thought aside. Yeah, okay, so he has considered that truth since Peter offered, but that doesn't mean he's any more ready for it now than he was then. The majority of him still wants to be human. "We need more Alphas like you, Stiles. I await your call." With that, Slade turns on his heels and walks away, leaving Stiles reeling a little bit. So, he's known outside of Beacon Hills? Not just known, but titled like some badass Noble or something! 

Hah! Take -that- Alpha Hale! At least someone somewhere out there is fully aware and accepting of his awesomeness! He can feel the giddy smile plastered on his features, but he doesn't really care. At. All! He's happy, really happy, and he's not prepared to let go of that mood any time soon.

* * *

13 pieces of the offensively wonderful red garment have been hidden around Hale House by the time the Alpha is through. Feeling smug and satisfied, he curls up on his bed, a happy sound of excitement rumbling from him when Stiles' scent wafts up from the tufts of fabric stashed inside his pillow case. His eyes have fluttered shut, his hindbrain dragging up images of Stiles. His smile, his scowl, his snarky mouth formed perfectly around some sarcastic comment. 

Quickly, his thoughts shift. Focusing on the feel of the human. How his skin had warmed and reddened when he scented and marked him. How his body had been surprisingly firm and perfect beneath him when he curled across him. He whines deep in the back of his throat, turning his head until his fevered cheek is pressed against his pillow. His nostrils flare, filling with the human's scent until his throat is constricted, his mind dizzied, and his lungs drowning in it. Happy little whimpers and whines escape him, his back muscles taut as he wriggles and writhes against the bedding. Getting it just right beneath him, so that he is at the perfect level of comfort. 

A deep, satisfied sigh puffs from his pursed lips, his hands falling to twine on his stomach. For the first time in what feels like forever, he is happy. Serene and peaceful, even. In fact, the only thing that would make this moment absolutely -perfect-, would be for Stiles to be here with him. Curled up on his chest, where Derek could feel every breath, every movement, every heartbeat of the human. His beautiful, caring, loyal, amazing Stiles! His tongue flops from his mouth, tracing the outer curves of his lips as he tries to remember what Stiles had tasted like. Though it was barely any time since he woke up with the remnants of the teen on his tongue, it has since faded into a vague memory and he doesn't like that. He doesn't understand why the flavor of Stiles hadn't imprinted on his brain as deeply as the teen's scent had. Prolonged exposure, maybe? But that is truly too complex a thought for the state of euphoria he's in at the moment.

He's so lost in his thoughts of the younger man, that he misses the sound of the jeep rattling up the drive until it comes to a rolling stop in front of the house. In fact, his first clue to anyone being here is the sound of the front door opening. A distinctive sound that draws him from his own mind and puts him on high alert instantly. His nostrils flare and he fights down a wave of panic when all he can smell is Stiles, until he realizes that is because it's Stiles entering the house. 

STILES IS HERE!! 

He leaps up, off the bed, forcing himself to a stand still so that he can smooth the edge of his pants and run his fingers through his hair. He makes sure that he is presentable, though he doesn't bother with a shirt, before he takes off toward the stairs. He considers going down them like a normal person, he really does, but his feral side wins out. He leaps from the top step to the bottom, landing with a heavy thud that shakes the floor a little bit and doesn't fail to draw a grunt of surprise from the human. Stiles glares at his Alpha, arms laden with bags that Derek immediately moves to grab. His wild side practically growls with happiness at the chance to show off his superior strength to the human. 

"Seriously, Derek. Heart attack, man. One of these days, you're gonna leap out of a shadow, shimmy through my window, or leap down those stairs and I'm going to die on the spot of a freakin' heart attack." Stiles grouses the usual argument, a hint of playful teasing in the words, but they rub the Alpha the wrong way. Big time. He barely has the chance to place the bags on the counter before he's turned and grabbed twin handfuls of Stiles' shirt to drag him forward. He bumps his ear against the rapid beat of the human's heart. He has memorized it, the jackrabbit rhythm that would be alarming in most humans, but actually denotes healthiness in his human beta. 

"No. You have a strong heart, Stiles. In lots of ways." He allows himself to deliver one of the compliments he has been -aching- to offer since meeting the human and getting to know him a little. It feels good, freeing even, to finally be able to tell him something like this. Stiles snorts and reaches down, his fingers carding fondly through Derek's hair absently. 

"Well, it's good to know that my heart will hold out against your future scares, Alpha." He chuckles warmly at his own joke, before he pulls away and turns to step toward the grocery bags. He barely makes it a foot before an instantaneous change overtakes the Alpha. He goes from happy and proud to thunderously angry in a matter of moments. His claws appear, ripping into Stiles' shirt a little as he tightens his hold.

"You. Smell. Like. Other." He snarls each word from a misshapen mouth of elongated, sharp teeth, eyes a volcanic red as he stares his human down. "An Alpha. WHY!?" His demand is bestial, but to Stiles' credit, he doesn't flinch. He goes pliant and still in Derek's hold, his own blazing amber eyes never looking away from those violent pools of crimson. 

"Because, I saw an Alpha in the store while I was shopping, Derek." He speaks the words slow and clear, making sure that the Alpha Instinct has time to process and make sense of them. Once Derek's hold loosens a little, Stiles stands at his full height again. He didn't quite submit, but it was the closest he usually came to doing so. (That beautiful, intimate submission of his throat aside.) "His name is Slade Skellen, of the Skellen Pack. He presented himself to me, for reasons that still don't make complete sense, but whatever. I told him that he would have to see you. He wants permission to remain in town for a little bit. His sister is pregnant and he wants to visit her." He carefully pries his shirt out of Derek's grasp fully so that he can begin to put the groceries he bought away, giving his Alpha time to consider his words.

Though, Derek can't even -begin- to do that, because Stiles smells -wrong-. He smells of foreign and danger and not Pack and it is cutting him up inside to allow that stench to remain on his friend. He chuffs in annoyance and grabs Stiles by his shoulders. He carefully turns the human until Stiles' stomach is pressed against the counter. He drapes himself across the human's back, his hands moving to grasp the counter on either side of the warm body. He presses his nose to the nape of Stiles' neck and inhales.

 _ **Wrong. Foreign. WRONG.**_ His blood sings battle songs as each second passes. He huffs out a warm, moist breath, Stiles shuddering faintly as his own hands shoot out to press flat against the counter top. Another form of vague submission as Derek begins to nose at his flesh. Every few passes of his nose are followed by his tongue licking a hot stripe in it's wake. He lathes the nape of his neck, the curve of his ear, the swell of his lobe, huffing and chuffing until all he can smell is **_Pack. Human. Us. STILES. US!!_**

Once he is satisfied, he lets go. Takes several steps away from the form he wants to curl around and never let free. Moves back until his ass connects lightly with the far wall. He cross his arms over his bare chest, watching as Stiles whirls around to face him. Looking him straight in the eye as he waits for his answer. Because of course, the human -knows- he will get an answer, where no one else in the Pack would. 

He gives himself a second to contemplate a rather startling, big truth; Stiles has far more power than anyone else in the Pack save the Alpha, and it has never occurred to him to use it in any personal way. Because that's not Stiles. Sure, if he thought it would benefit the betas and make things easier for Derek, he'd probably use his power in a heartbeat, but even then he'd be conflicted about it. It's one of the things Derek loves about him. (And he's gonna keep right on pretending that he didn't use the big L word in his thoughts. Denial is his best fucking friend right now, thanks.)

"Alright. Set up a meeting for dinner, we'll meet him and he can tell me all of this himself. Present himself to the Alpha properly." Stiles is already grinning, because deep down he expected nothing less. A year ago, and Derek would've probably slammed him into a wall for being 'stupid' enough to hold a conversation with an unknown Alpha and then called him half a dozen disparaging names because the Alpha went to Stiles first. He's come a long way since then, and Stiles has pretty much figured him out by now. 

"Will do, Alpha. Any particular place in mind to eat?" Derek puffs up and preens subtly because Stiles called him Alpha, but also because he is deferring to him in this situation. He groans beneath his breath, pinches the bridge of his nose, and gives his head a fair shake.

"Ugh." The only sound that comes is one of put upon exasperation and something that Stiles can't quite identify. "You really like Mags' place, right? Make it for tonight, there, around ... 7. Sound good?" He really shouldn't be offering up so many clues to a situation he really doesn't want Stiles to figure out, but he can't help himself. He has scheduled the meet in the first place because Stiles wants him to. Made sure that it will take place in an area that Stiles really likes, and then confirmed that Stiles was alright with it all. Instead of, say, -ORDERING- him to be okay with it, as a normal Alpha would. 

"Alright, sounds good. Oh! So, Slade had some interesting things to say."

"I doubt that." He mutters under his breath, but still shifts his full attention on his human beta. "Like what?" He offers an olive branch, because Stiles usually likes it when Derek responds in some way that means he's actually listening to what the human is saying. 

"Well .. apparently, I'm a bit of a big shot in the Supernatural community. I have titles and everything. They call me Lord Stilinski. The boy who runs with wolves! Lord of the Beacon, defender and protector of the Hills. The boy that summons Unicorns and banished the Arrogant One! The human that caught the attention of a Bittern." Stiles is practically bouncing with happiness as he relays all of this. He still can't wrap his head around the fact that anyone beyond a few in their Pack could ever really give a damn about him. 

With each new compliment and title, each new form of address, Derek can feel his mouth going dry, his hands and arms beginning to shake. Hell, he feels downright lightheaded and as if he is stuck on unstable ground. Because while it is great and well deserved that Stiles has the recognition he deserves for all the good he has done to help people and supernaturals and everything else, it is also a bomb waiting to detonate. Because how long will it be before supernatural creatures begin to show up in troves to try and convince Stiles to leave the Pack and Beacon Hills behind, to join them for more power and higher rank??

How long will it be, now, before Stiles walks out of their lives permanently to live somewhere he will be respected and treated far better?? Derek sucks down the mania threatening his mind, and manages to school his features into his usual mask of indifference until he can come up with some kind of plan to keep everything from going to shit.

"Hmm." Is his placeholder sound to let Stiles know that Derek heard him, but doesn't have anything to say to him about it, yet. Because there is almost always a yet, a situation down the road where he will be better suited to address the matter. "Go, get in touch with the Alpha, Stiles." He quietly prompts the human, smiling almost vaguely when Stiles yelps and lunges for his phone. At almost the exact same moment, the phone starts playing Owl City's Bombshell Blonde.

'She's a bombshell blonde, wired up to detonate!  
I'm James Bond, live to die another day!  
Bombshell blonde, high explosive dynamite!  
She's all I want so I, I'm on a mission tonight!'

Derek's eyes narrow at the lyrics, his hands furling into fists against his hips as he fights down the hot touch of jealousy and fear. But no, there's no reason to be afraid. He knows this. Because he took that damn number -away- and there's no chance in HELL he's going to lose Stiles to that Love Cervere bitch! (Okay, bitch may be a little harsh, but he's feeling petulant, catty, and particularly sour at the moment. He is NOT in a forgiving mood, especially not where anyone wanting to spirit Stiles away is concerned.)

Stiles fumbles the phone and eagerly presses it to his ear.

"Sorry, gonna have to call you back! I have to make a very important call, like, right this second! But I'll totally text you." He rushes through the explanation before Gisila can say anything, making sure that Creeper McCreeperton can't use his super wolfie hearing to figure out who is calling. He immediately ends the call and pulls up a text box just as the Woman's Moan from Sherlock announces a new text.

'Ah, His Broodiness is in the room, isn't he? If I ever get the chance, I'm stealing his phone and erasing everything. Jackhole.'

Stiles tries to stifle his snicker, but just can't. He snorts softly and quickly shoots off a text saying that he'll get in touch later, before he pulls up the screen for his contacts.

"That's an .. odd choice for a ringtone, Stiles." Okay, he's totally fishing. He knows it, Stiles probably knows it, but come on! He -needs- to know why Stiles has that kind of ringtone for someone in his phone, because he's about 1000% sure that he had erased -anyone- that could be viewed as 'competition' in the human's cell. (Though he's not saying there is anything to -compete- for.) And he's also 100% sure that none of the Pack would be assigned such a thing. Who?? Who is it!? "Erica would kill you for it, Danny would probably punch you for implying that he's a She in any way, and Lydia is more red than blonde." He ticks each of these truths off carefully, barely managing not to use his fingers to emphasize his point. He can feel the instinctive feral side of his wolf wanting to assert it's dominance. Wanting to demand that his human beta submit to him and -tell- him who the hell just called!! But the human side of him, despite what Stiles and the rest of the Pack might otherwise imply, is socially aware enough to -know- that demanding that would be an asshole move that he doesn't want to make. Hell, he's aware that the fact that he thinks he should know is already toeing a line he ain't allowed to cross. Of course, that truth hadn't stopped him from erasing Gisila's number and taking the scrap of paper it was written on in the first place. 

Stiles glances up from his phone, eyes wide and as open as they always are. Bless Stiles, he will always be easy to read if you know him at all, and Derek would go so far as to swear that he is a bit of an expert on the human. Which means that it's pretty damn obvious that Stiles is up to something as he quickly taps the screen to bring up the Alpha's number. 

"It's just a ringtone, Derek. Now, if you'll excuse me, -you- demanded I contact Slade. So, yeah, totally let me do that and everything. One moment!" He practically smacks the little phone icon and shoves his mobile against his ear as he turns his back toward his Alpha. No, it won't stop the superhearing werewolf from nosing in on the conversation, but it will at least let Stiles feel a little bit more like he's in control rather than playing the part of dutiful lackey/beta. 

"Lord Stilinski!" Slade's deep voice sounds even richer and fuller over the phone, and Stiles' eyes snap closed so that his overactive imagination can conjure a perfect vision of the androgynous man. He licks across his bottom lip, reaching for a glass from one of the cupboards.

"Oh my -god-, again with the Lord thing, man! Stiles. Just Stiles. No Lord or, like, any of that other stuff!" He huffs and pouts as he turns on the faucet to fill the glass with water. 

"I bet you're totally blushing right now, aren't you, Stiles?" Slade practically growls and Stiles feels his knees go a little weak. Apparently, he has a thing for rough and gruff. Who knew!? "I can even picture it." Slade hums the words and Stiles actually squeaks. His eyes widen further, his gaze darting around quickly to see that Derek is seething behind him. He lifts his shoulders in a 'whatcha gonna do' kind of movement, and clears his throat nervously.

"Stop trying to picture me blushing, Slade. That is a disturbing image -no one- needs to be thinking about."

"I disagree, Stiles. You blushing is a rather great thing to imagine. The way your cheeks --"

"No, stop! I will -order- you to, if I have to, Slade!!" He growls the words down the phone, slipping a little bit of his new found authority into it. He can almost picture Slade bearing his throat and it makes him smirk a little. "This is an -official- call, so if you could stop embarrassing the hell out of me, that would be great, dude!" He huffs, but there is a thread of amusement there as he shifts from foot to foot.

"Alright, alright. I promise to behave .. this time." Slade actually purrs the words, and Derek's claws come out. A few of them shred the hip of his waistband, his teeth grinding in anger. What kind of self respecting werewolf purrs? (Yeah, yeah, he's not stupid! He knows, deep down, that this has nothing to do with a werewolf purring and everything to do with someone flirting shamelessly with Stiles within hearing distance of him, but whatever. Denial is still his friend, damn it!)

"No. No, see, you're going to behave -every- time, Mr. Man, or I swear ... you know what? I'm too flustered to come up with anything witty, but you better believe there will be consequences, buddy!"

"Oh? Are you saying you'll -punish- me, Stiles? Because that is just incentive, dear." Stiles' hand actually spasms, the phone falling from his lax fingers. If Derek weren't preternatural, the phone probably would've hit the tiled floor and shattered. However, the werewolf manages to catch it, even manages not to squash it in his fist as he battles down the roaring rage inside of him. 

"Well, if -Stiles- doesn't, I will, -dear-. And trust me, it will be -anything- but pleasant." Derek snarls savagely into the mobile, causing Stiles to tremble momentarily. Long gone are the days when he would believe his Alpha capable of willfully hurting him, but he is not so foolish as to forget that the creature is powerful and dangerous. 

"Alpha Hale." Slade's voice slips into a cool, controlled timbre, and Derek can't help but show far too many teeth as he struggles with his temper. Oh, if he could, he'd reach through the phone and strangle the prick for the way he had been talking. And okay, maybe now is the time for him to quietly, and ONLY to himself, acknowledge the fact that he has a little bit of a 'thing' for his human beta. 

"Yes. If you still want to stay in town, you will meet us at Mags' at 7 tonight." He doesn't bother with anything further, ending the call while it is somewhat still civil. He glares down at the phone, his lips molding into a deep frown when another Sherlock moan announces a new message. Before he can be too tempted to check it, Stiles yanks the phone out of his hands and shoves it into his jeans pocket. 

"Thank you. I, uh .. I wasn't really expecting him to be that cheeky or anything." He gives a little bit of a nervous, sheepish chuckle and looks around the kitchen. It only takes him a second to realize that he has put everything away, and that he suddenly, VERY much, doesn't want to be here any more. He's feeling self conscious and unsure, and that's never a good combination for a sarcastic prat with ADHD. Oh! His meds! He silently thanks whatever deity may or may not exist for giving him the perfect excuse. He clears his throat, rocking up, onto the balls of his feet for a moment. "Anyway, now that all of this is done, I need to be getting home. I didn't have my meds with me, so I need to go take them, especially if I have to put up with Slade later." He tugs lightly at his earlobe, smiling faintly. "How we gonna do this, then?" 

Derek tries not to frown. Lifts a hand to rub down his face to obscure the action. Damn it, the -last- thing he really wants is for Stiles to leave. Well, that's almost -always- the last thing he wants, truth be told. But now, more than ever. Because he is really starting to enjoy having the human around at odd moments. Add to that the fact that there's a strange Alpha in town that has shown far too much interest in his packmate, and Derek is chomping at the proverbial bit at the thought of Stiles being out of his presence for a single moment. An absent Stiles is a vulnerable Stiles. For now, he has only Stiles' instincts to assure him that the visiting Alpha means his friend no harm, and while he is comfortable trusting the teens instincts, he also knows that Stiles can be a bit oblivious about certain things. Namely, people's true intentions toward him. Like Erica. He never realized that Erica had a thing for him until she came right out and -said- it. Slade isn't even bothering to be -subtle- about it. Does that mean the Alpha would try and take Stiles away by force? Not necessarily. Does it mean the bastard might do everything in his power to try and persuade Stiles to go with him? Probably. 

"I'll pick you up at 6:15. Be ready and waiting. Drive safe, Stiles." Before the human can read too much into his concern, he turns and makes his way to his room. Maybe a bit of a workout will calm him down. If nothing else, the thought of being sore and sweaty is -REALLY- appealing right now.

* * *

Stiles is pacing. At the end of his bed. Glancing from his shut and for once LOCKED bedroom window to his closed door. His Dad is at work, thank God, but it doesn't lessen the Kaleidoscope of butterflies swarming through his stomach. He had taken his medicine the second he got home, but it is no help for the emotional upheaval he's currently experiencing. 

Not for the first time since he went in search of a poor, dead girl in the forest, he finds himself completely divided between the supernatural. It's not even like this is the -first- time he has found himself straddling an awkward line between two different Werewolves. He felt torn between Scott and Derek for so long that he should be a freakin' -EXPERT- by now, but it really isn't the same. In the least. 

Because for the first time since this all began, he truly thinks that his own future is fully on the line here. Yes, he has risked his life several times in the past, thus putting his future on the line, but that was -always- for someone else. It was never about finding his own bliss, following his own path, finding his own personal growth. In fact, for the first time since his Mom passed, he finds that he has no one -but- himself to consider. 

He jerks to a stop, his hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise as he reviews that last thought. Is he -really- doing that, though? Is he **_REALLY_** ready to make a decision for himself and no one else? Is he even  capable of that!? He's not so sure. Even while his thoughts are on his future, the possibility of whatever is going to happen from knowing Slade, he is still concerned about his Alpha and the Pack.

"Damn it!" He whimpers the words, managing by some miracle not to dwell on how many lupine noises and actions he's taking lately, and instead, trying to focus on what is going to be happening soon. Namely, the fact that he's going to be trapped in the very close, very personal vicinity of two powerful, supernatural Alphas, and he really won't stand a chance if everything goes to hell around him. He considers packing some mountain ash or wolfsbane, but he immediately axes the idea. This is supposed to be diplomatic and peaceful. He cannot jeapordize that by bringing weapons to the meeting. Not to mention, neither werewolf should be prepared to risk anything by going tooth and claw in the middle of a damn diner. Though, he's definitely seen Derek be that foolish before. However, even as that thought gets a bit of a chuckle out of him, he immediately dismisses it. Because he has the utmost faith in his Alpha, and he's pretty damn sure he always will at this point.

"Okay .. okay, there is -nothing- to worry about, right? This is just Derek posturing and letting a visiting Alpha know that this is -his- territory. Nothing is going to go wrong. We're going to sit down, have a nice meal, be civil and normal and OH MY GOD, this is going to go so horrible, SO fast!!" His breath hitches painfully, quickly spiraling off into dangerous territory. The kind that is the awful prelude to a panic attack.

'She's a bombshell blonde, wired up to detonate'

The ringtone has barely begun to go off before Stiles is diving for his phone. He accidentally overshoots the foot of his bed, sliding off and hitting head first into the wall under his locked window at the same time he manages to swipe the answer icon.

"OW! Stupid .. damned ... fu -- hi! Gisila!" He pants the words, broken and huffed with pain as he rubs a hand delicately over the top of his head.

"Stiles!? Are you okay? I swear, I can feel you panicking from halfway across the world!!" Her voice is the same sweet, serene tone he remembers, though it's laced with worry and concern. It makes him feel warm and tingly all over to know that she cares, despite the oddity of their first meeting. 

"Yeah, fine. FINE! Just, uhm .. just managed to hit my head diving for my phone like the totally suave moron that I am. Nothing unusual." Her giggle in response conjures memories of sweet breath and loving promises, and Stiles no longer feels tingly. He feels .. kinda numb. In fact, he's almost instantly grateful that they are communicating by phone rather than face-to-face. Because as much as he really wants to talk to the Pantera, he knows that he's not ready to see her again. Knows, actually, that he may -never- be prepared for that, and it bums him out pretty badly. 

"Uh-huh. Why is it that I have absolutely -no- problem picturing you doing just that, sweetie? Now, why not tell me why you are panicking? Why it took you so long to get in touch, and why I should be magnanimous enough to forgive you." Her playful tone eases some knot that has been forming in the pit of the human's stomach and he releases a relieved breath as he pushes himself to his feet and settles on his bed. He sways just slightly, but is so familiar with head injuries that he knows there's no reason to worry. He'll probably have a small bump there, but nothing life threatening. Hell, not even in his top -twenty- injuries and that thought is depressing as hell. 

"Uhm .. probably because you're a creepy stalker that stalked me before proposing marriage and the having of children that would've hollowed out your freaky Panther womb forever afterwards?" 

"Oh. Right. That. I almost totally forgot about that. Of course." They both collapse into peals of laughter, their snark so familiar it feels as if they have been friends for years rather than the truly shaky foundation of their meeting. "Now. Stop with the sweet talking and get to the point, dear. I'm choosing between you and an exceptionally orgasmic cup of coffee. You're winning. For now." She purrs the words for now and Stiles is finally feeling loose and relaxed. More like himself. He falls backward on his bed, staring absently up at his ceiling, trying to think. Or, at least, trying to make sure he doesn't say anything too monumentally stupid when his brain to mouth filter inevitably clogs and goes rogue. As it is want to do. Every single time. Ugh, he needs a new brain.

"Wow. I'm beating out something orgasmic. That is a first for me. Lemme savor the moment." He draws his words out, dripping with sarcasm despite the fact that they are also true in so many pathetic ways that it makes his heart ache. Terribly. God, why is this his life?!? For the first time ever, people actually -want- him and he takes complete absence of his senses and turns them down. This is probably the only time anyone will ever choose him and he, what? Held out for the fucking impossible? Because he knows that what he wants will never come to pass. How the hell can he hold out for something too good for him in every way? Not to mention, something that he knows is pretty much a moot point!?

"Fuck ..." He whimpers the word. The sound deep and distressed in the back of his throat. His curse is met with utter silence on the other end of the phone. He pulls the device back to make sure that it is still ticking away, counting down the seconds of connection between them. Just as he is fitting it back against his ear, he hears a soft, deep sigh from the other end and his heart swells again. Even if they can't be together, he can feel the fact that she cares all the way from here. He loves her in this moment, even if he can never be -in- love with her.

"Stiles ... please, talk to me. I know ... damn it, I know I can't -be- there for you, but I am -here- for you, dear. If that .. makes any sense." She is clearly pouting as she struggles to make herself be understood and he wishes that he could be more for her. Better for her. But then, that's him, isn't it? No matter how much it hurts him, lessens him, -destroys- him, he is always there for whoever needs him, if they realize it or not. 

"Thanks, Gisila. I .. yeah, I know what you mean. So .. well, things are weird here. First off .. after you left, a ton of supernatural stuff started happening around here. Though, I guess you heard about that, huh?"

"Yeah ... pretty much -everyone- has heard about some aspect of it, Stiles. One of the last Unicorns showed up and skewered a creature for you. Onuris -finally- made himself known to you." Stiles stops breathing. His chest aches, his mind winds down to a near standstill as he tries to process what she means.

"Finally? What does that even mean??"

"Uhm .. it means that Onuris knew the second you were born, Stiles. All Bittern lucky enough to have one, know when their Taw'am roHi are born, and when they come of age. He should've come to you the day of your 15th birthday and presented himself. But .. well, I can't say as I really blame him. You are an amazing person, Stiles. You're downright intimidating, actually. A lot to live up to. And Oni is ancient as hell. He .. he has been sad for several years now, and when I finally figured out why ... well, I wish I could help him, but it's something he will have to handle on his own. Just like you have to."

"No. Just .. fucking NO, Gisila! He does -not- get to play the victim in this! I ... he ... he never even told me! And even after I .. when I started to ... he fucking left as if I didn't mean a damn thing to him! I had to have everything explained to me by the freaky ass powerful person masquerading as a veterinarian! If -anyone- gets to be the wounded party here, yeah, it's me! Ohhh, you bet your pretty little -ass- it's me!" He has pushed himself to a sitting position and then lept to his feet as he screams down the line at her. Agitation seeps from every pore, his free hand flexing so tightly in a fist that tooth-torn fingernails are ripping into his palm and he doesn't even realize it. The pain cannot penetrate the anger he is dwelling in.

"Stiles!" Gisila snarls the word, putting every bit of her feline power behind the sound of his name. And just as it does when his Alpha says it, it snaps him out of his mood, soothing his anger like a vat of cold water. He collapses heavily into his computer chair, his fist pressed so hard against his thigh that he is finally aware of his nails ripping his flesh. Can feel the bruise forming on his skin. "No, sweetie. You do not get to do this." Her voice has fallen to a soft octave that gets his attention better than any amount of screaming, hollering, or cursing could have. He feels the familiar sting of tears burning the backs of his eyes and he quickly closes them, hoping to stave the tears off. Or, well, the full on breakdown he knows he is heading toward.

"Gisila --"

"No, Stiles. Just .. no. You're better than this, sweetie. So much better than this." She goes silent for a few minutes, neither of them prepared to break the moment as they try to get their thoughts in order. This conversation is about to get heavier than the damn moon, but it needs to happen. It -should- have happened ages ago. Another way Derek really screwed his human beta over without meaning to. "Stiles .... you're not angry for the reasons you want to think you are. This isn't about Onuris not wanting you, because you know damn well that he wanted you more than anything. God, he is heartbroken, Ty. Like .. legit heartbroken. I've never seen him this out of sorts, and I've known him most of my life. He won't even talk to Slade, and that has -never- happened before." She sucks in a solemn breath and Stiles wants to kick his own ass. Hard. Repeatedly. 

"I --"

"Still not done, sweetie. I know this is a hard concept, and almost impossible for you to achieve, but you're going to sit there, dear, and remain absolutely silent until I've had my say." He starts to shake his head like an obedient friend, then swallows down a hysterical laugh when he realizes that she can't actually see him. She laughs too, though, so he has a pretty good idea that she knows what he tried to do. She's downright awesome like that. He wonders momentarily if maybe she and Danny were related in another life, but that's the kind of tangent he can't really afford right now, so he shuts it down before he can accidentally voice it.

"Onuris isn't the one you're mad at, Stiles. Yes, a part of you was hurt that he didn't explain everything, that he left before you had the -chance- to really fall in love with him. And I do mean -chance-, because we both know you don't love the Bittern, Ty. You loved the thought that someone so ancient, wise, gorgeous, and all around good could feel that way about you. If he -had- stayed in your life, you may have been able to fall in love with him one day, but it would've been at -least- a decade down the road. And you know that's true." 

His eye lids compress tighter, bursts of static-y color bloom across his blackened vision, making him feel shaky, achy, and uneven. He's going to burst. Explode some invisible seam and seep from his own boundaries because he doesn't have the first fucking clue how to deal with all the emotions burning like endless embers inside of him. His wants and desires seem to be at war and he's pretty sure he will be the first and last casualty of this bloody internal battle.

"Stiles .. listen very closely to what I'm about to say. Now, I know that it won't be any big revelation or anything. It's a concept .. no, screw that, it's a -truth- you have been well aware of for quite some time, of that I have no doubt. It's just time that you accept it .. okay? Because if you don't ... you're either going to lose your mind refusing to face it .. or ... damn it, Ty, you're going to keep running so far and so fast away from the truth that you're going to jump right in the line of fire of something that's going to mow you down once and for all." He's trembling now. Some feral vibrato right beneath his skin threatening to shake him apart as he struggles not to throw his phone at the wall and shove his fingers into his ears screaming I CAN'T HEAR YOU at the top of his lungs in hopes that every thing will just stop. That it will all go back to normal and he can pretend that he's not at the end of his emotional rope preparing to fall a million stories to a bone breaking conclusion. Ignore a problem until it eventually goes away ... a philosophy that hasn't actually worked once in his twisted, strange life, no matter how many times he has tried to employ it. God, does this mean that he finally has to finish growing up and look at the reality of things, rather than the interpretation he prefers? Growing up officially blows.

"You. Are. In. Love. With. Your. Alpha." Each word is pried from between grinding teeth and gritted jaw. Each syllable injected with the kind of no nonsense tone that he has no choice but to sit up and take notice of. To process the unprocessable. Basically, he is being force fed the truth and if he makes a single move to try and regurgitate it, he has no doubt that Gisila will be on the first flight from wherever she is to bitch slap him with reality until he accepts it. He also has no doubt that that scenario would be marginally less painful than what he is currently facing. He can feel the burn of fat, hot tears cutting sorrowful paths down his cheeks as they finally win out. He can taste salt and hysteria as they tickle his lips and then cascade down his chin. Splashing in technicolor emotion against his shirt front. "It's not the end of the world, Stiles. Being in love with Derek Hale is -not- a crime, punishment, worst case scenario or torture designed to drive you mad. I promise." A hysterical giggle is ripped from the frayed depths of the human when he realizes just how -pained- the Pantera sounds at admitting this. He has no illusion that Gisila likes or in any way approves of his Alpha, but that's okay. Because -he's- the one that is in love with the werewolf, so his is the only opinion that counts in this matter. Still, it's irrationally, surreally funny that she is trying so hard to reassure him that something she does not find alright in the least is, in fact, alright. God, she really is just the female version of him, isn't she?! How had he missed that!?! 

"You did not and would not love Onuris, Ty, because you're already in love. You would have both been miserable and alone, no matter how close you were to each other, because he is not Derek and the illusion of your love would have only hurt him worse." And .. there it is. Stiles releases his next breath in a gut-wrenching sob that echoes off his walls. Bounces back at him in assaulting surround sound as the phone falls from his fingers and clatters into his lap. Both hands lift, palms pressed flat and tight against his leaking eyes as he finally allows it to happen. Half-crazed sobs are screamed from the raw depths of his throat. Over and over. Painting the airwaves with all the misery, fear, and heartbreak he is feeling. Because the poor boy is a self conscious wreak. He is fully convinced that it has ended before it began. 

He has no chance with a strong, confident Alpha that could have anyone he wanted. Who has never made any indication that he is anything but straight and not even interested in the sexuality he probably fits. Another scream, hoarse and agonized. He throws himself out of his chair, landing face first on the floor. His hands leave his eyes, a few streaks of blood from his perforated palm smeared through the wet tumble of his lashes, creating a sickly pink glaze that is gross and yet, perfectly sums up the turmoil he feels. His palms slam against his floor. Again. Again. Over and over. Relentlessly beating against the flat surface until they are stinging and red. Until he is almost numb to the pain. And then he does it some more. Tries to physically battle the emotional. It's a fight he has lost as soon as it has begun, but he doesn't care. He continues. Until his arms and shoulders hurt so badly, ache so deeply, that he just can't keep going. Three more weak, pathetic attempts and he goes completely still where he is laying. 

"Ty ... sweetie ... it really is going to be okay." Gisila's voice comes to him through a muffled tunnel as his body struggles to find order. To escape the chaos of his last, dying sobs. Once her words have trickled into his brain, he allows himself to relocate. Nothing so sweet and kind as lifting himself back into his chair, or into his bed. He remains exiled to the floor. Carefully, he rolls onto his side. Tucks his knees against his stomach and curls into a protective fetal position. Only, there's nothing to protect him from, anymore. The truth has found its way into him, and it can never be banished. Well, unless he is (un)lucky enough to get retrograde amnesia in one of the inevitable future fights he will experience alongside the Pack. 

His thought draws up short, and a final distraught sob is wrenched from him. Because how in the hell will he ever be able to call himself Pack again, if Derek finds out his deepest, darkest secret?? If the Alpha somehow gains the knowledge of how Stiles feels, there's no way he'll let the human remain! After all, Stiles only ever gained entry in the first place because he was Scott's glorified sidekick. A package deal that the Alpha simply couldn't turn down. Stiles is only allowed to stay because of necessity. His hands lift, abraded palms furled into trembling fists. He quickly shoves one in between lips and teeth. Tries to suffocate any further emotion that might come pouring out of him at his current rock bottom. 

"I'm sorry, Stiles. God, I'm so sorry, sweetie. I know .. I know it's hard. -Trust- me, I know it's hard, dear, but it's better that you face this. Because now, you can do something about it. You can --"

"Thank you, Gisila." Stiles croaks the words a second before he ends the call and struggles but finally manages to put his phone on silent. He won't completely turn it off, because he has too deep a compulsion to check it often, in case someone needs him. Even before he began to feel responsible for the Pack, he had compulsively checked to see if his Dad had called or left a message. He leaves the phone on the floor in front of him, closes his eyes, and allows himself to become adrift in his tender psyche.

* * *

The Camaro takes the corner at a surprisingly docile speed. For what seems like the first time since he saw Scott and Stiles in the woods looking for an errant inhaler, Derek really isn't looking forward to seeing the human. Usually, a trip to the Stilinski household is a -good- thing. It means that Derek is going to get some much needed information once he has put Stiles to research, that he is simply going to get to spend a little time in the human's presence, or in the old days, that he got to touch him. Yes, it usually meant pushing or shoving him, intimidating him by getting all up in his space, but he would take what he could get! And yes, he is admitting this to himself as part of his new Stop Denying You Got a Thing, program. Because honestly, when has -anything- involving Stiles in any capacity really been ignorable for any real length of time!? He hopes that finally acknowledging whatever -this- is, will help with the feral state he has been slipping into, though he's not banking on it.

His palms are sweaty. Actually -sweaty-! He didn't even have that particular teenage predicament when he -was- a teenager. But here he is, in his twenties, hands squeaking against the leather of his steering wheel because his palms are slippery. His body is acting as if he's headed to pick Stiles up for a date or something as cliche and hormone driven, rather than picking his Second in Command up to meet a visiting Alpha so they can hash out the basic, common rules of courtesy while Skellen is in -his- territory. Just for -starters-, you know, the COMMON FUCKING COURTESY of - **NOT** \- HITTING ON SAID SECOND! Yeah, yeah see, that would be a -great- rule to establish as soon as fucking possible! Because even if admitting what he is feeling doesn't help keep his feral side at bay, having some other Alpha assbutt hitting on Stiles sure as hell isn't going to improve the situation! 

He growls low and steady, can feel his eyes bleeding into their intimidating red hues and he wills them to just stop already. It's not like there is anyone to actually posture for or try to intimidate at the moment. All the action is doing is riling him up. Setting his instincts ablaze with desires and needs he can't actually fulfill at this present moment. See, he's pretty sure that barging into the Sheriff's house and trying to claim Stiles would be a big no-no! Same goes for leaving his Second behind while he goes to the diner to lay in wait to ambush Skellen and beat the holy hell out of him. Though, both thoughts are certainly revving his engine a little bit, which is his first clue that he needs to chill the fuck out, right now! And damn it, those words even -sound- like Stiles in his head. 

The hyperactive idjit has officially taken over his brain and for the life of him, Derek realizes he no longer has any inclination to change that fact. He. Is. Screwed. The kind of screwed that is so thorough and complete it deserves capitalization in his thoughts. Again, another Stiles moment. 

"... it is -not- healthy to want to kill the person you're crushing on, right? Even if it's just envisioning eviscerating the mental representation of them in your own head, right? That's, like, totally not acce-- FUCK! I'm even -talking- to myself like him now." It's only once he has had this epiphany out loud that he realizes he is parked in front of Stiles' house and is sitting in his car. Like a moron. Or a Creeper. Or something equally undesirable. He rears forward, smacking his forehead on his steering wheel before yelping in surprise and rubbing the momentarily red, throbbing spot. Holy shit, -that's- what he did to Stiles when he smacked his forehead on the steering wheel?? No wonder the guy barely seems to tolerate him! And even then, only when it is somehow Pack related. Yeah, he'd totally avoid himself too if he could. He bangs his head a second time before letting it fall back against his seat.

"Denial was my friend. No, more than that. It was a nice, luxury apartment of obliviousness that kept me warm and safe. This .. this is hell." He continues his soft monologue, his eyes snapping closed to block out the intrusion of the world around him. "You .. are ...... laughing your -ass- off at this, aren't you, Laura?" He huffs the accusation with a hint of fondness and a ton of pained regret. He would give almost anything to have Laura back, but ... but at the same time, he wouldn't be here, where he is, if he had her. If he had never had a reason to come to Beacon Hills, he would have never had a reason to understand just how strong he is. To figure out that, though he will -always- bare the guilt of what happened, he isn't defined by what Kate Argent and her sick little lackeys did to his family. 

He is an Alpha. Not the best that ever was, but certainly not the worst, either. He has a strong Pack, and strong family, and though he never thought he would live to see the day, he is in love. Bone deep, act like a fool, trip all over yourself in love. He may have never had any of those things had events not unfolded exactly as they had. His eyes fly open, his hearing concentrated on the Stilinski home where he can hear Stiles' too fast heartbeat, the soft trickle of water, the jerky movements of someone just as nervous as he is. 

He knows damn well that if none of this had happened .. if even a single event had been minutely altered, he wouldn't be sitting here wanting to think of what amounts to a business dinner as a date. So, as much as he misses her .. misses all of them, he is no longer screaming for the Fates to give them back. He has not put them in the past, but neither is he dwelling on them, using them as a shield to shy away from life.

"Or maybe ... maybe you're just happy for me." A small, heartfelt smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he pushes himself out of the car and finally heads for the front door. At exactly 6:15, he knocks loudly, three times, before he crosses his arms in front of himself and waits patiently for Stiles to come to the door. He doesn't even use his enhanced hearing to track the teen, which he is counting as a personal victory.

When the door opens, Derek realizes that he regrets everything! From the smallest detail of making sure that this meeting will take place at Stiles' favorite restaurant with Stiles present, to the major things; like the fact that he has fallen for a whimsical teenager in the first place! Some little part of Derek's brain wants to hope and pray that this is happening because Stiles has simply forgotten. But at the same time, the thought that Stiles -could- have forgotten has his heart threatening to out and out stop. To give up and refuse to beat a single time longer than it has to.

Because Stiles, sweet, beautiful, sarcastic STILES, is wearing almost the exact same get up he was wearing when they first met and that means that there is about a 50% chance that he has done it on purpose. Though Derek can't begin to imagine what purpose that might be. (Stiles brain intimidates him, okay?! It's hard for him to try and follow the teen's thought process on most things!)

Stiles is wearing a dark tee shirt, the hem of it slightly faded, a spot about the length of a quarter is threadbare. On the very center of the faded tee is a red, white, and blue bullseye. A fucking BULLSEYE. Derek will never forget that shirt, because it had enraged and amused him all at the same time. What kind of human wears a target on their chest when wandering woods that contain werewolves? And now, he's wearing it again, to meet another werewolf. Derek can feel a muscle twitch under his left eye, another jumping in his jawline. This time, the teenager is sans blazer, and the Alpha can't help but -look-. 

Stiles layers for some bizarre reason that Derek will -never- understand, but the result is one hell of a deception! He looks more gangly and scrawnier than he is. Without the blazer, the short sleeves fall mid bicep and show off the fact that Stiles' arms are brawnier than some of the werewolves he runs with. (Derek knows for a fact that his abs are more defined than most of the werewolves as well, though there's absolutely no reason to point that out when he's having enough trouble keeping his mind firmly on business in the first place.)

The Alpha breathes in sharply through his nose when he finishes looking the teen over. Because Stiles is a horrible, horrible person! (The fact that Danny still calls him Miguel sometimes is proof of that!) He has paired the bullseye tee shirt from their first meeting with a pair of dark, cherry red jeans that are tight enough Derek isn't sure how the little prick even MOVES in them. Yeah, no. Those jeans were created to torture him and test his resolve. He's sure of it.

"S-Stiles." He mangles the name when the inhale finishes registering on his senses. Because Stiles smells like honey again. That deep, raw sugary sweetness that can coat the mouth in a few seconds and linger for days. The tip of his tongue flashes out, scrapes against his dry bottom lip moments before he clears his throat and commands himself to become a mouth breather in the next few seconds. "Ready?" He mentally high fives himself for how clear and normal his voice is despite the fact that his stomach is tied in knots while his heart is trying to relocate to the vicinity of his throat. 

"Uhm .. yeah, yeah, ready. Lets go." Stiles flashes a tight smile and Derek wavers. Is something wrong? Had something happened between the time Stiles left his place and now? Has the teen decided that he's leaving!? Every worst case scenario becomes a panicked slideshow through the Alpha's mind and he has to swallow down a desperate whimper. He's not going to make a scene. Not gonna debase himself with a pathetically needy sound. Whatever Stiles decides ... damn it, whatever he decides, Derek will just have to make peace with. He can do -that-! He can be a good person, a -BETTER- person, for Stiles Stilinski.

He swallows thickly and moves toward his car. Has to abort the path that would take him to the passenger side door, unsure what in the hell possesses him to make him even -consider- grabbing Stiles' door for him. Even if this were a real date, he'd never do something like that. He's pretty sure holding a car door open for the hyperactive teen would result in an elbow to his stomach, or deity forbid, his groin. So, he climbs into his car, shrugging his leather jacket off and tossing it into the backseat as he waits for the teen to climb in and buckle up.

"One of these days, Derek ... one of these days, you are going to let me drive this car. I just know it." The teasing 'argument' is an old one between them. Ever since he let Scott drive the vehicle while he was tracking the Alpha, Stiles has bemoaned the fact that he's never gotten the chance to. Derek blinks almost drowsily for a moment, a half smile softening his features as he looks sideways at his ... friend? Packmate? 

"Sure, okay." Two little words that even Derek never expected to leave his mouth. Stiles whips around so fast that Derek winces in sympathy for the poor teen's neck, but forgets that sympathy instantly at the way Stiles BEAMS at him. Honestly, the young man lights up with a smile so energetic and beautiful that the werewolf forgets to breath for almost half a minute. 

"Really!? Like .. totally legit, no take backs, you'll let me drive this sweet ride!? Because I swear to GOD, Derek Hale, Alpha or NOT, I will find a way to make you -pay- if you're just jerking me around!" He wriggles and squirms in the seat, his eyes moving all over the interior as he begins to picture it. And Derek can just about picture it, too. The way Stiles would grin ear from ear, the infinite care with which he would adjust the seat and mirrors. The way in which he would both baby and push the car to get the maximum effect from it. Once again, he preens over the fact that he has managed to make Stiles so damn happy with nothing more than a simple gesture that he truly means.

"I wouldn't jerk you around, Stiles. At least, not about this. You'll get to drive." He manages to crack his own smile. Just a bare twitch of his mouth at the corners, but it makes Stiles light up even further. The Alpha forgets, for a moment, that they're sitting in a silent car that he's supposed to be cranking. Instead, he's kinda lost basking in Stiles' happiness and reveling in the fact that he can actually cause any kind of positive emotion in someone. Usually, he only causes one of two things in others; lust and fear. It's been that way since he went on the run with Laura and he never really expected it to change. 

"Okay, listen up Alpha, because I cannot stress this -enough- ... **_thank you_**. You are making a dream come true for me, man!" Derek looks away instantly, hands tightening on the wheel so tightly that his knuckles ache. A dream come true ... god, why does Stiles have to say something like that over a damn -car-?? He would give just about anything for the human to feel that way about him, but he's not about to hold his breath. Sure, he'd pass out before it would kill him, but it would still be an all around unpleasant experience and he's not ready for that. 

"Stiles." He mutters the name without any of his usual conviction or passion as he finally cranks the car and backs out of the driveway. Without bothering to pay too much attention, he turns the radio on, tapping one of the far presets to tune up a station that Stiles had programmed in some time ago. It usually did the trick to forestall any need for conversation between them, thus leaving Derek alone with his thoughts. The second his hand falls away from the radio, however, Stiles turns it right back off again, his wide, expressive eyes hooded and unreadable. That shakes Derek to his core. He's not used to being unable to read his friend.

"Thank you, Alpha, for doing this. All of it, I mean." Stiles turns his head carefully, deliberately, until the column of his throat, not his neck, is visible. Derek just happens to glance over at the movement and almost immediately he can see everything. The splash of moles, the snow white hue, the way the muscle cords at the strain. His own throat clicks dryly when he tries to swallow, a hand pulling free of the wheel so that he can reach to the side. Can mold his slightly sweaty palm to the perfect curve of that throat. To revel in the feel of warm skin beneath his touch. His throat clicks a second time, his eyes straying from the road so that he can glimpse the human again. 

He files it all away for later. The way that Stiles blushes at the touch, or that's what Derek hopes is causing it. Because if his touch makes Stiles blush, it -means- something. Deity, let it MEAN something! He draws his hand away reluctantly, wishing they could stay like that the entire drive, but he knows better. 

"I .. you're welcome, Stiles." In the end, he decides to forgo pretending that he is doing this for any other reason than the fact that Stiles wants him to give Slade a chance. If any other packmate had approached with this situation, Derek would've growled them into submission, tracked Slade down, and if he were feeling generous, given him half an hour to vacate Beacon Hills before he would physically remove him. But .. that's not how it happened. No, the visiting Alpha was smart enough, or maybe just lucky enough, to introduce himself to Stiles first, making it impossible for Derek to take his usual course of action. (This train of thought should -really- worry him. If there is even a -chance- that he is that transparent where Stiles is concerned, he should be scared that someone or some _thing_ will press that point one day, but he can't. He has other things to worry about at the moment.)

The human beta grins sweetly at him one last time before turning his attention out the tinted window. Even without music to fill the space, the Alpha finds himself sinking into the familiarity of their companionable silence.

* * *

Stiles has decided that this entire situation was conjured from one of the many levels of hell to torture him! Though, for the life of him, he can't figure out why!! What has he done that was so horrible, he deserves to suffer like this? Lying to his dad, maybe. Or dragging Scott out into the woods. Maybe it's something he did in a past life. Robbed an orphanage or some heinous crime. Either way, he feels as if the Universe has conspired to screw with him now that he can no longer hide from his feelings for his Alpha. 

The moment he opened the door to Derek, he knew that he was in trouble. That he would have to struggle to keep from giving his revelation away. Derek is intimidating and only part of that is due to the fact that he's a born werewolf. The other part of it is just -him-. 

Being stuck in a quiet car with him, once he took his leather jacket off to reveal a tight black, long sleeved shirt almost proved too much for him to take! However, he powered through. Managed to curb his tongue long enough to get to Mags' without Derek threatening him bodily harm. Stiles will consider this a victory. 

The moment the car is parked, Stiles is shoving the door open and unbuckling his seatbelt. He sucks in a breath of 'fresh' air that doesn't smell like leather and Derek, and prays silently that they make it through this meeting without incident. Once Slade has been squared away, he can take all the time he needs to deal with these new developments. Maybe, once this is done, he will be able to hide away in his room and come up with a plan of some sort. Given how long he was head over heels for Lydia without her returning his feelings, you'd think he'd have several plans in place for this kind of disaster waiting to happen, but apparently not. 

He should correct that soonish.

Once he has closed the car door, he reaches up to smooth the collar of his tee shirt, and then the hem of it. For one insane moment, he thinks he sees Derek tracking his movements from the corner of his eye, but he refuses to believe that. If anything, Derek is probably judging him. Sizing him up to make sure that he has a plan to correct anything Stiles might mess up. 

"I'm guessing we're here early for a reason." The teen throws the observation out as a casual conversation piece, because he already knows the answer. He knows Derek well enough to know the truth. They're here early so that they have the strategic advantage, so to speak. He steps around the car and heads toward the door, masking any surprise he might feel when Derek steps up to hold it open. Stiles ducks under the Alpha's arm and heads inside, eyes scanning the diner quickly. Nothing is out of place to his human senses. No one he doesn't have at least a passing knowledge of is sitting in the restaurant. He nods toward Mags before he walks around the please wait to be seated sign. He never waits and no one ever seems to expect him to.

He passes several occupied tables and booths until he reaches the very back booth. A glance shows that no one is currently sitting within hearing distance, so it is twice as perfect. He scoots in first, putting himself against the sidewall. Derek gives him an approving smile for choosing a spot where their backs are protected, and for putting himself in the inside spot. Where Derek can protect him. The Alpha slides in next to his human beta, stretching his legs out for a moment before getting comfortable. Or, at least, giving the appearance of being comfortable. 

"You could teach the others a thing or two." Derek makes that statement as if it's not a life altering, reality shattering compliment or anything. No, he acts as if he's just said the weather was nice or that he's hungry, or something as mundane and every day instead of acting as if he's just told Stiles that he can do something better than his Betas.

"Of course I could. Been saying that for ages, man. You really need to learn to listen, Alpha-mine. No telling how much you've missed me say." Stiles licks his lips, feeling them suddenly go dry and parched. He's saying too much. Hinting at too much but he believes there's no way Derek will understand. Or care, for that matter. What's a bit of prattling on to the Alpha of the Hale pack? He's had plenty of practice ignoring him, after all.

"Maybe ..." The Alpha drawls the word out, again, with a casualness that falls far too short for how important the word is. It's the closest to a capitulation that Derek has ever really offered and Stiles doesn't know how to process it. Not right now, at least. It's another one of those things he's going to push to the back of his mind and try to deal with later. Much, MUCH later. Possibly years from now, once he's managed to sail right past this little crush of his and move on. Somehow.

"Right .... moving on!" Stiles twists a little, jumping in his seat when the sound of a howl is issued from his pocket. Derek's eyes widen a fraction and then narrow dangerously as his lips compress into a frown. 

"You have -got- to be kidding me, Stiles. Seriously!?" He growls the words, though they lack so much of the animosity he used to express. Instead, they sound more .. fondly exasperated? Yeah, he's going to label that wistful thinking as that is safer for his sanity.

"What? He thinks it's hilarious, Derek." He pouts slightly, his hands flexing before he pulls his phone out to read the message.

"Really? The .. Alpha ... of a well established Pack finds it -hilarious- that your text alert for him is a wolf's howl?" Derek actually whispers the word Alpha, looking around carefully to make sure no one is within earshot. He huffs and Stiles has to force himself not to make a big bad wolf joke. The struggle is real! 

"Yes, Derek, the Alpha of a well established Pack finds it hilarious, okay? He also put my ringtone and text alert as Amanda Seyfreid's L'il Red Riding Hood." He can't help it, he snickers deeply at the thought. "Apparently, the ringtone portion is 'What a big heart I have, the better to love you with. Little red riding hood, even bad wolves can be good.' And then the text message is .. 'what full lips you have.' " When Stiles finally looks up from his phone, he nearly drops the thing on the table top at the expression Derek is wearing. He looks ... god, he looks as if he has been busted open. Laid bare and raw for everyone to see. And what Stiles sees is a level of sadness he had only ever guessed at before. 

Fuck, Derek looks as if someone has reached into his chest and surgically removed his still beating heart. Stiles swallows heavily, glancing down at his phone when it howls again. He immediately shuts it off, not bothering to look at the text this time.

"Of fucking course it is." The Alpha mutters so softly beneath his breath that Stiles knows undoubtedly he wasn't supposed to hear. Which is why he chooses not to acknowledge it. (And not, in anyway, because he is a total coward that has no clue what to do with words like that! No sirree!) "Maybe this was a mistake .. maybe .." Though those words are spoken just as softly, but they may as well be a booming thunderclap for the way they tear through him. 

What's a mistake? Setting the meeting up? Bringing him here? Acting as if he is pack!? His hands are subtly shaking so he shoves them into his lap, out of the way. If Derek sees them shaking, he will definitely rethink trusting him with anything. 

"Derek, I .. I --" His mouth snaps closed when he hears the bell over the door announcing someone else has arrived. He can't begin to explain how he knows, but he does, instantly. His jaws click softly as they clench, his eyes lifting to watch Slade walking quickly toward them, a look of concern on his features. 

"Stiles!" Slade growls his name, tone laced with concern and a bit of confusion. "You turned your phone off. Why would you do that?" When he looks at the Alphe questioningly, Slade blushes a little bit, casting his own gaze away from the human. "I tried to call you and it went straight to voicemail. I got worried." Derek clenches his hands against his thighs, under the table, his elbow brushing Stiles' lightly as he watches the other werewolf ignore him completely. Stiles looks over at his Alpha, before smiling tightly at Slade.

"You got worried? You knew you were headed here in a few minutes anyway, Slade. There was no reason to rush over or rush in." He sighs before he forces himself to sit up a little straighter. "And you're also being very rude." He points this out with a soft, business-like manner. He glances from left to right subtly, and then looks Slade right in the eye. "Alpha Skellen, I present my Alpha, Derek Hale. Alpha of Beacon Hills. Alpha Hale, Slade Skellen." He notices that the moment he names Derek his Alpha, the werewolf begins to relax. He carefully unfurls his hands and leans back in his seat to study the other man quietly for a few moments.

Slade remains standing beside the booth for several long seconds before he grits his teeth and quickly bares his throat to Derek. It's nowhere near as long or respectful as the action had been toward Stiles and it kinda pisses the human off. A lot. He feels as if the werewolf is deliberately being rude by shortchanging his Alpha and he feels a swell of Pack Pride deep inside that makes him want to leap across the table and sink his teeth into Slade. He wants to rip into him for his behavior. If he had claws, he thinks Slade would be in a hell of a lot of trouble. He knows that he wouldn't attack him in this open spot, but later? The visiting Alpha would probably be open season.

"Sit." Derek's voice is not rough or gruff, nothing but his usual cadence and timbre, but it is an order and there is no denying that. Slade tenses when he realizes that he's being commanded, but he does as he is bid. He slips into the booth and without hesitation, slides over so that he's positioned in front of Stiles rather than Derek. Again, Stiles finds that he has to battle down a reaction and that really isn't good. If he can't keep himself in check over something so stupid, how in the hell is he going to survive all of this!? 

Derek glances over at Stiles, giving a single nod of his head. Stiles reaches up, wiggles his fingers in a friendly wave that summons Mags to their table. She's a middle aged woman with curly strawberry blonde hair pinned up, wearing jeans and a simple black shirt. She leans close to the table, beaming at Stiles.

"Welcome back, Stiles, Derek. Hello." She turns to look at Slade, nodding to him in welcome. "What can I get you to drink, dears?" Once the orders have been placed, she winks at Stiles and Derek before she heads off. Slade glances toward Stiles, smirking faintly.

"Well, my my, Ty. Aren't you just the popular one?" The werewolf winks playfully at him, causing Stiles to blush a little and fidget in his seat. 

"Don't call me that." Stiles snaps out, his words harsher than he meant them to be. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels the warm press of Derek's palm against his knee. It comforts and hurts. Causes a physical ache even as it soothes the instinctual one. "As for my popularity .. that really isn't what we're here to talk about, Alpha Skellen." He puffs up a little, still incensed by Slade's current behavior. "So, it would be swell if we could get to the point." His tone is clipped and snarky and he nearly shivers when he feels the hand tightening more on his knee.

"Doesn't Gisila call you that?" Slade pouts. Actually pouts. He reaches up to push his hood off his head of dark hair. His hands clasp in his lap as he leans back in his seat. Stiles raises a brow, but doesn't comment on it, making Slade wince a little. "Right. So, no calling you Ty. Got it. I could always call you Szy --" 

"That is -enough-!" In the end, it's Derek that actually snaps. He growls and snarls his words, eyes almost flashing red, though he manages to quell the action by some miracle. "You are here on official business, Skellen, but all I see is an Alpha being a child. Poking, prodding and acting like a moron. You wanted to spend time here, in our territory, but you can't even extend the common courtesy to watch your stupid little mouth and play nice." His words are silken smooth and soft, despite the fact that they are audibly brimming with rage. Stiles can feel a shiver beginning down his spine and he's not sure if he wants to sink under the table and hide from both Alphas .... or if he wants to push himself right up against Derek's side and revel in his power. Both feel vaguely inappropriate, so he remains sitting for now.

"I --" Slade is nearly puce cheeked with pissed indignation. Stiles can almost imagine cartoon steam whistling from the werewolf's ears or a text bubble of curses spelled out in symbols above his head. At any other time, such mental images would prove hilarious to the point that he would be compelled to share them when his filter inevitably decided to shut down and allow his thoughts to come spilling out. At this point in time, however, the image just confuses and unnerves the human. Because he hasn't the first clue why he is feeling as out of sorts as he does at the moment.

"No." Stiles speaks up this time, drawing the gaze of both Alpha's toward him. He clears his throat to make sure that he won't squeak or in any other way undermine what he's about to say. "Derek is right, Slade. You're behavior is deplorable, man. You're acting different. Or, at least, different than you have been with me so far. I know it's not been long, only a few hours, but you've mostly been nice to me. Playful, sure. A little more flirty than I'm used to, yeah. But nice. You know I hate my real name as much as you hate yours. You shouldn't even -know- my name, dude. I'm guessing you got that information either from Gisila, who shouldn't know it either, or the more likely suspect .... Onuris. Gisila says that you and him talk, so I'm guessing he let it slip at some point. That doesn't give you permission to use it, at least, not from me. And my permission is the only one that matters on that point, dude." From the corner of his eye, he sees an almost thunderstruck look cross Derek's face when the Alpha realizes that somehow, someway, Slade knows his real name. He wonders if the werewolf has also figured out that Slade knows the Bittern, that that is who Stiles is currently talking about. 

"Yeah, Oni told me. He ... he was messed up one day, shortly before he came to Beacon Hills. He told me that ... that you were in trouble and he had to help. Told me your real name by mistake." Slade shifts uncomfortably in his booth for a moment, causing Stiles to frown. Because he knows somehow, that the werewolf has been lying to him. It angers him. Fuels his fury until it is burning at exponential levels of anger. 

"You son of a bitch." He bites the words off like verbal venom, hoping to wound the Alpha with each syllable. "You utter, complete fucking bastard." Stiles can feel his limbs shaking. Can feel the confused weight of Derek's stare, but he doesn't care. Too emotional at the moment. "Your sister really is pregnant and does live in Beacon Hills .. but that's not the real reason you're here. It's not because of Gisila or because Onuris is worried about me. Hell, it's not even about your own damn curiosity, is it? Not fully." Stiles leans forward, the Alpha rushing to do the same, nearly causing the two to collide in what would've proven a brain scrambling headbutt for the poor human. But, for once, his reflexes seem willing to cooperate and he manages to avoid the collision.

"You're here because you want to take me away. You want me to join your Pack, so that you can say you have me. You can tell everyone that I chose you over a Bittern .. or Oberon and a Pantera. That I left the Hale Pack and came to Skellen willingly. You don't even give a damn about -me-, just what I could bring you." Slade scowls, his open features suddenly clouding over. Moving into unreadable territory. 

"Fine. You figured it out." Slade slides back in his seat, crossing his arms in front of himself. His once flirtatious smile becomes a cold, hard sneer that pierces Stiles right through the heart. It makes him feel dizzy and almost bloodlessly numb. "God, who could ever actually -want- you, Stiles!?" The Alpha growls those words, his smirk becoming a disgusted, contemptuous smile as he regards the hurting human. "When Gisila told me about you, she made you sound like a fucking Saint or something. And Onuris? He's the smartest, wisest, most powerful creature I've ever met. He -turned- ****_ME_ down, but couldn't stop ranting, raving, and -crying- about some stupid, gross little human that he couldn't get over. So yeah, I decided I had to come meet you. The Lord of Beacon, protector of the Hills. The boy who runs with wolves. Fuck, what a disappointment. Because what do I find? A needy little loser that talks to himself because he just can't shut that fucking piehole. How the hell did Gisila or Onuris get a word in edgewise! And Oberon! Don't -even- get me started on that!" The Alpha is snarling viciously now, though he is managing to keep his voice low enough not to draw attention, despite the fact he looks about two seconds from foaming at the mouth.

"That narcissistic prick only collects the rarest, prettiest of things. What the hell did he want with you!? You're the skinniest, most inelegant, plain creature I've ever seen! You're pathetically human, Stiles. A spastic freak that has the great privilege of being surrounded by supernatural creatures that make you look downright ugly in comparison. WHY would anyone want you!?" Slade demands an answer this time, reaching out to snatch Stiles by the wrist even as his eyes bleed crimson for a single instant before he is able to reign his beast back in. Though his bruising hold doesn't end.

Stiles sucks in a deep, trembling breath and prepares to -launch- himself across the table at the bastard ... but his Alpha beats him to it.

* * *

This is a mistake. Every part of Derek's brain that is capable of rational thought -knows- that this is a mistake. He's inciting a fight with another werewolf in the middle of a restaurant, for Christ's sake! It can be nothing -but- a bad idea. But his hindbrain? His **-instincts-**?? Those think this the very BEST course of action after everything the smug, sharp-tongued bastard has said about his human. Yes, he has spent his entire life working on his control. Ensuring that he has a leash on his inner beast that could rival the oldest, wisest, most experienced of his kind ... and this little fucker has managed to wreck it all in the span of a few minutes by putting Stiles down. (Again with the teenage behavior!)

If he were in any position to, he'd probably laugh himself stupid over the situation, but he's kinda in the middle of taking a very strong elbow to the solar plexus while he wrenches Slade's hand off of his human beta. When his friend makes a sound of pain, it feels as if someone has grabbed a hold of the wolf and dialed it up into bloodthirsty overdrive. He roars his disapproval at the same time Slade snarls, and it's off to the proverbial races.

He picks the smaller Alpha up by the throat and throws him out of the booth and into the next table. The thick snap of bone and wet slick of breaking skin assuage the inner beast's needs a little, but not nearly enough. At this point, the wolf is howling for the Alpha's death for hurting his human. His beta. HIS STILES! 

"Oh. MY. GOD!!" Some part of Derek is aware of Stiles' voice, but it is tinny and distant, dripping through some filter that doesn't let him register too much. Like the fact that he is fighting Slade dangerously close to Stiles and he could get hurt. Or the fact that he has heard the breaking of ceramic and glass as Mags drops the serving tray she had been in the midst of delivering to their table. Or that several _**innocent humans**_ are currently in the danger zone of a werewolf brawl. All of this is there, the knowledge perceived somewhere in his brain, but he can't be bothered with it. Because Slade has to pay. Has to bleed and hurt for what he's done.

He roars again, vaguely wondering if he has managed to accidentally pop his fangs and change eye color yet. Hoping against hope that he hasn't actually outed himself as a supernatural creature in the undertaking of this foolishness. He grunts in pain when a hand grabs his arm and wrenches so hard that he can hear the pop of his shoulder out of his socket, followed by the crunching of his lower arm into bone shards that tear and prick at his skin.

"Slade!" Stiles hollers the sound, shouts it in an almost feral voice that makes Derek proud for all of two seconds before he feels a fist connect with his jaw and nearly shatter it. He whines in pain, sucks in a bloody tasting breath and tries to focus on the fight at hand, but he can't. Not really. In the blink of an eye, everything changes. 

One moment, Slade is still holding him by his shattered arm, in the next, he hears a bloodcurdling scream of pain and Slade is on his back, on the floor. His entire body is bucking and shuddering. As if he is having a seizure and trying to fight off an invisible attacker all at the same time. Derek watches in a sort of .. sick fascination as blood begins to pour from the Alpha's nose, streaking his ashen cheeks and pooling on the ground. His hands rear up, fingers crooked like talons, though still thankfully human, as he begins to claw at his own face. Scratching at his cheeks, his jaw, his temples, screaming in pain a second time.

It is only when he sees Stiles standing close to Slade, chest heaving with deep, pained breaths that he is able to somewhat think straight. He snaps into focus and charges forward, placing himself between Stiles and Slade, but also blocking the view of Slade from the rest of the patrons. Apparently, seeing two young men break out into a fight in the middle of the restaurant had sent them scurrying to the far side, or out of the establishment altogether. He hopes it is enough for them to miss what is happening, since even -he's- not actually sure what is happening. 

That is, until he feels the heat and energy pouring off of Stiles. Who still hasn't stopped looking at the writhing werewolf. 

"Stiles ... look at me, not him ..... STILES!" He grunts the second call of his name, concern and agitation warring for dominance in his tone. It is only after the grunt that Stiles seems to shake himself back into awareness. He turns his impossibly wide honey-amber eyes on the Alpha, and Derek feels as if he can breathe properly for the first time since Slade walked into this damn place. Which is now partially wrecked. With sirens wailing in the distance. Because of course, a bunch of customers weren't about to witness a brawl and -not- call the cops ... especially when the Sheriff's own son was stuck on the perimeter of it. No, that would be too fucking easy.

"D-D-Derek ... A-Alpha ..." Stiles is gasping for breath. It takes a moment for Derek's still somewhat in control hindbrain to realize that fact. That his human is literally struggling to breathe now. His chest is heaving so heavy, so fast, that it's a wonder he's still -standing-, let alone able to whimper out those two words. It is the labeling of Alpha that jump-starts Derek into action, reminds him that no matter what is about to happen to -him-, he must take care of his beta. 

"Stiles. It's okay." He tries for reassuring, but his voice is slightly too high, too panicked, because he knows what this is. Stiles is having a panic attack and there's nothing he can do about it. Not really! He slings his arm carefully around the human and goes to the ground immediately. He moves, twists and turns until Stiles' back is pressed against his chest. He places his left palm directly over Stiles' heart, his right hand immediately pressing over his left so that his arms are partially wrapped around the younger man, cradling him close as he tries to use his own heartbeat as a guide.

"Come on, Szymon. I need you to breathe with me ... okay? Just .. listen to my heart. Feel how steady it is ... match your breathing to it, Stiles .. you can do it ..." His voice has lost all edge, all Alpha anger and rage to be replaced by desperation, concern, and above all else .. hope. He can bring Stiles out of this before the poor teen passes out or something. He can help with this, be there for him. He feels the shuddering breathes, uneven and hectic, frantic in their panic to draw in as much oxygen as possible, and he almost whimpers at it. But he doesn't. Because he's an Alpha, damn it! And therein, hopefully, lay the answer. He tilts his head, presses the slightly damp curve of his lips to the nape of Stiles' neck and bites ever so gently. The teen jumps in surprise, his breath faltering for a moment.

"Damn it .. for once in your life, just listen to me, Szymon!" Derek out and out growls the words, using just a little bit of his Alpha power to try and bring his beta to heel. To try and -order- Stiles to breathe. When the teen's breathing starts back up with a deep, careful, but shaky breath, Derek feels relief flood his system. "That's it. Now take another for me .. good .. come on ... you got this, Szymon." He murmurs against the adrenaline flushed curve of Stiles skin, tasting sweet and desperation. He huffs a breath out and then immediately inhales, using Stiles calming scent to steady and anchor himself. "That's good. Okay, good." He sighs softly, arms tightening around the human. At this point, he doesn't want to let go. He wants to wrap around him, protect him from what he knows is coming. Namely, the huge ass possibility he will have to lie to his Dad again. After all, he can't really tell the Sheriff that he was attending a werewolf meeting that got out of control, can he?

He is drawn from his thoughts by the feeling of a clammy hand gripping at his left arm, another hand pushing against his thigh and gripping tight. It is unusual, the thought of someone using him as an anchor of any kind, but it is welcome as well.

"God .. are you okay, Stiles? Can you move?" He lifts his mouth from his nape, licks at his lips, and nearly jumps right out of his skin when he glances over ... and sees Sheriff Stilinski standing no less than four feet away, a deputy standing on either side of him. He looks ... well, it's a strange mix of emotion, really. Shock .. concern .. anger ... and a sort of ... begrudging acceptance, as if he has somehow expected something like this for a while now. And boy, would the Alpha that is currently trying not to piss himself in fear of a human with a gun that can't actually kill him, like to know why the Sheriff looks as if this strange scenario playing out in front of him was -inevitable- somehow!

"... you know his real name." The Sheriff scoffs in disbelief, and boy, those are NOT the words Derek had been expecting, but neither are they exactly easy to process with the foggy mess his brain is at the moment. "I don't think even -Scott- knows his real name, let alone how to calm him during one of ... those." The Sheriff runs a large hand down his face, rubbing at one of his cheeks before he turns to look around the restaurant.

"It's ... complicated, sir." The answer feels lame and ridiculous to his own ears, so he can only imagine the amount of bullshit the older man reads into it. But, it's also the truth, as far as he can actually afford to explain it at the moment.

"Not his fault, Dad. 's'that asshole." Stiles stirs in Derek's hold, causing the Alpha's arms to tighten even further in case he tries to do something stupid like stand or walk toward the blood crusted asshole still laid out on the diner floor. Stiles grunts, tenses as if he's going to fight Derek's hold, then sighs and sinks deeper into his arms. The werewolf tries to fight down the swell of pride and happiness at the fact that Stiles trusts him with his vulnerability. Now is not the time for animal instinct, but instead, the awareness of the man. Later, he can revel and hope. But now, he has to face reality, not the possible future.

"Damn it, Stiles .. how do you always manage to do this, kiddo?" The Sheriff doesn't sound upset so much as very, very tired. The Sheriff's emotional fatigue hits Derek with a Titanic amount of guilt, because he knows that a lot of the older man's turmoil is because of his Pack and he wishes he could make it better. Maybe he can, if Stiles will agree. But, again, that's for later.

" 'm s'rry, Dad. Wasn't on purpose." Stiles almost slurred speech begins to ease up as the last dregs of adrenaline leave him. He shakes his body carefully, but doesn't make another move to get up, out of Derek's arms. The Alpha is both distressed and relieved by this fact. Distressed because the Sheriff keeps glancing at him as if he's a ticking time-bomb attached to his son. Relieved because with Stiles tucked against his chest, safe in his arms, he can watch over him. Make sure nothing bad happens. (Yes, he knows he will have to let go at some point, but he doesn't want to, damn it!)

"Stiles ... kid ... I know it wasn't on purpose. Of course it wasn't. You've done a lot of things, but never purposefully started a situation where someone was gonna get hurt." The Sheriff's eyes flicker back toward Derek and he bristles. Because he really doesn't want to let Stiles go. Not now, and not ever, but he knows that isn't realistic. Life doesn't -work- that way, and no matter how his affections have changed toward the teen, he can't take advantage. So, he carefully unwraps his arms, ignores the little gut-punched whimper Stiles gives. (Seriously, the human has been hanging around them too long. He sounds more wolf than Scott does! How is that even remotely possible!?)

He crawls out from behind the human and immediately gains his feet. Before holding a hand out to Stiles. The teen takes it, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet. Derek has to fight down the urge to lunge forward, wrap himself around him again, and hold him steady. He's pretty sure that would probably shove the Sheriff off the precipice of his tightly wound self control. 

"Alright, you two. Start talking. What in the hell happened, Stiles? We got four different calls about a fight breaking out. About Derek Hale beating up some teenager while you three were having lunch." Derek growls, subtle, but not enough so, since the older man jumps a little in surprise and glares threateningly at him. It's powerful enough that Derek immediately ceases the growl and shrinks a little under the gaze.

"First off, he's not a teenager, sir. He's in his early twenties." 

"And second off, it's not as if Derek started the fight, Dad." Stiles huffs, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair, frowning at the spot where Slade is carefully being helped to his feet by the Deputies. The teen takes Derek completely by surprise when he stealthily bares his teeth at Slade in a threat and warning all rolled into one. Again, it impresses the hell out of Derek, makes him proud as both a person and an Alpha, but also leaves him questioning what the hell is going on here. Stiles suddenly draws himself up to his full height, causing Derek to do the same thing without realizing it. He's offering solidarity and comfort to his beta. Putting them on equal ground, which is just confusing.

"Slade knew Derek and I were having lunch together here. He texted me a few times, and when I didn't respond, he tried to call me. I .. I switched my phone off so that Derek and I could talk without being interrupted and when it went to voicemail, Slade showed up." Stiles glances toward the bloodied Alpha, who is swaying a little where he stands, glaring back at the human. "He said he was concerned, but it was a lie. He's ... he's an asshole, Dad. He's been ... saying stupid things that I was a moron to believe, and when he finally showed his true colors, it wasn't pretty." Stiles lifts his bruised wrist, the Sheriff zeroing in on it with the kind of observational skills only a parent can posses in regard to their children. No matter how young or old they may be. The Sheriff's look darkens, stormy gaze swinging toward Slade for a moment, before looking back to Stiles. "He grabbed me, and before I could snap and beat him off, Derek did. He lept at him for talking smack about me and hurting me, and it escalated from there."

"Oh, please! Derek attacked -me-, I didn't do anything! Stiles probably got hurt when he tried to get between us or something. He's an idiot that thinks he's brave!" The closest deputy moves forward, grabbing Slade by the shoulder in a way that would hurt like hell if he wasn't a werewolf.

"Better watch your mouth, asshole. You're the outsider here." The deputy whispers into Slade's ear, but Derek can, of course, hear it. Slade scowls, but before he can say anything else, Mags and a grey haired man step forward.

"Now listen here, Sheriff. I don't care what that young hoodlum says, he's the one that started the fight by grabbing poor Stiles. He was practically growling at the kid when he snatched his wrist." The grey haired man glares in open disgust at Slade. Derek is sure that if there weren't currently cops present, the old man might take a swing at the other Alpha for hurting Stiles. He respects the old man a little bit for that.

"He's telling the truth, John. I was on my way over with their orders when the stranger grabbed Stiles." She glares just as openly at Slade, though her gaze is a little darker. Like whatever she would do to the werewolf would guarantee no one found his body. Derek believes she might be able to get away with it.

"You." The Sheriff points at Slade, and for the first time, the werewolf looks genuinely uneasy. Seems to grasp the full scope of the situation he's in, and just how badly all of this can go. He hooks his thumb over his shoulder, both Deputies immediately stepping away. The Sheriff grabs the Alpha by the elbow and leads him several feet away. If Derek was impressed by Stiles' snarl, the one the Sheriff issues blows it out of the water.

"You listen and you listen good. My son won't be pressing charges. No matter what I say to him, he's still going to give a prick like you the benefit of the doubt. Here is what's going to happen, kid. You're going to get the hell out of my town, because I know damn well you aren't local. You're going to go quickly and quietly, as soon as possible, or you're not going to like it. I will deliver a description to every cop in this area, and you stick out like a sore thumb. I will have you put at the top of the BOLO for suspicion list and make your life a legal living hell if you don't leave." He glances over his shoulder to see his son looking at him with wide, confused eyes and it causes him to flinch a little before turning his intense gaze back on Slade. "The -only- reason I'm not booking you and then making sure we get lost and you have a nice accident full of black and blue bruises, is because it would kill Stiles to even suspect something like that happened to someone because of him. If I had my way .. I'd let my Deputies pistol whip you into next season. You see, they are -all- fond of Stiles. He's like the surrogate child of every single cop in this area, and none of us take kindly to our kid getting hurt. Do I make myself clear??"

Slade is tense, his natural fight or flight instinct running haywire through him as he tries to figure out how to respond. Of course, he wants to attack the Sheriff for thinking he would ever even -consider- bowing to human demands, but he knows that in this case, he has to. He poses a threat to the man's son and that makes the man infinitely more dangerous than the gun and badge already do. So, Slade grits his teeth and gives a single nod of his head. 

"Good. Oh, and one other thing .. in case you decide to contract a case of stupid and remain in town after all. If the intimidation doesn't work .. then I will turn a blind eye and let Derek there finish the lesson he started before I was forced to interrupt. Now GO!" Derek's eyes widen and his jaws fall open. He is completely loose limbed and slack jawed with surprise and awe. The Sheriff would let him go after Slade if he stuck around? Wow, the man really was prepared to go any lengths for his son. 

The Sheriff watches Slade exit the restaurant, before he turns to Mags, who quickly says that she's not pressing charges on any of them, and moves to begin cleaning up.

"So, son .... I want the damn truth!" Stiles cringes and takes a step closer to Derek. The Alpha tries to swallow down his disappointment when he realizes that Stiles doesn't even know he's taken the action. "How long have you and Derek Hale been seeing each other!?" 

This encounter has just shot past surreal to making no fucking sense whatsoever! Derek and Stiles both go unearthly still. So still and similar, in fact, that the Sheriff looks between them with a 'SEE!' look, as if he's just caught them doing something completely incriminating simply by acting alike. Derek swallows heavily, struggling to battle down the wave of sadness and pain that threatens him. How can he explain to the Sheriff that there's nothing going on between them, because Stiles is too good and too smart for that?

"Dad! Come ON! What in the -world- could -EVER- make you think Derek would have anything to do with me?" Stiles words are almost whisper soft, but feel like a raw shout in Derek's ear. He spins on his heels to stare at the teen as if he's grown a second head that just wolfed out or something as abundantly absurd. Because he knows that there's no way he is hearing what he -thinks- he is hearing. Stiles honestly thinks Derek would have nothing to do with him!?

"Stiles. Enough lies! -NO ONE- goes after a guy like that unless there's something more going on! Scott has been your best friend almost since you two were in -diapers- and he wouldn't have kicked that little prick's ass over you. But Derek did! So, stop lying, and just tell me the truth. Are you and Derek dating!" The Alpha cringes, wishes that he could somehow retreat into himself, disappear, do -something- to get out of this conversation, because the Sheriff is right. Even Scott wouldn't have started a public fight over someone talking crap about Stiles, but he had done just that. The fact that the Alpha grabbed the human was just another reason to go after him. He huffs a breath, reaches up to rub his fingers against his scalp, trying to soothe and calm himself.

When he sees Stiles give a pained smile and sort of .. deflate, it hurts. Hurts like hell, or maybe a thousand times worse.

"Dad .. I've been lying about somethings. And yeah, they're big things, important things, and I plan on telling you as soon as I can, but this isn't one of them. Me and Derek aren't dating. In what fucking -reality- does someone like -him- want **-anything-** to do with a spastic, loser freak like me!? God, Slade was right. Of course he was right! Why would -anyone- want anything to do with me, ever!? There's a reason I've never had a girlfriend or a boyfriend, and you were right about me outside the club, not gay, but I am bi and my style of dress doesn't mean anything." His words are coming in quickly gasped puffs of breath, and the Alpha doesn't have the first clue what his first reaction should be! Does he smack Stiles for thinking so poorly of himself, try to calm him down so he doesn't have another panic attack, or does he really just take complete leave of his senses and kiss him because it sounds as if Stiles might actually like him??

"Hey! Doesn't -Derek- get a say in all of this!?" Apparently, his mind has made itself up while he wasn't paying attention because he speaks without his consent.

"No!" Stiles turns to yell the word at him, and Derek just can't help it! He gives the most exaggerated eye roll to end all eye rolls, and throws in a really good Bitch Face as he mentally counts down. He gets to 5 before Stiles seems to register what was actually said and whips around to face the werewolf. Eyes wide and sort of glassy with a few unshed tears. He blinks rapidly, trying to hold them back, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he manages to speak weakly. "Wait .. what?" 

Derek's features soften into something that can be described as nothing short of shy and a little scared. He takes a few steps closer, placing his back to the entire restaurant as he reaches up to run the pad of his thumb across the apple of Stiles' left cheek.

"You heard me, Szymon." He whispers the name Stiles shed after his mother passed, bites at his bottom lip for a moment before he pulls himself up to his full height. This seems like an in for a penny, in for a pound, situation. "If you're planning your future already, and there's a chance it could include me .. don't you think I should get a say in that?"

"Stop calling me that, please!" Stiles huffs, and Derek can only assume he's using the chastisement as a way to finish collecting his thoughts. He can only imagine Stiles has a -lot- of thoughts on this current topic. "And stop talking bullshit! I -know- what I am to you, Derek. I'm the pathetic little idiot you put up with because of Scott. I'm the tag-along, the plus one you can sometimes ask for help." 

Derek's mouth opens, hangs that way for a second, and then snaps closed. He's glad that he's facing his friend, because he can feel his eyes flash deep crimson, and watches when Stiles stiffens in response, and on instinct, bares his throat. Derek has struggled through so much in his life. Beginning with what he was born to be, and ending with becoming an Alpha when he wasn't meant to be. None of those struggles seem as fierce or desperate as the struggle not to leap at Stiles and bite at his throat. To mark the human who is offering something he shouldn't understand, but probably gets on a more instinctual level than the entire Pack of bitten werewolves.

"God, Stiles, how can you be such a moron!?" He winces even as he finishes speaking, knowing that those words would be a monumental fuck up with anyone else. In fact, words like that would usual ensure that the person he spoke to that way would walk away and never allow him to explain, and that the person's temperamental Dad would probably arrest him on the spot. But this is Stiles, and he never reacts normally to anything! Because his back straightens and his eyes light with his natural need to stand up to people. "You -know- me, Stilinski. Name one person I would even -pretend- to tolerate if I didn't like them? Go ahead ... I'll wait." He growls the word wait, eyes blazing with challenge. Lips twisting into a dark little smirk as he crosses his arms and does just that. Waits.

Stiles' eyes fall to half mast, his hands flexing against his hips as he tries to stare Derek down. In the end, he can't really think of anyone. He had been cold and distant when they needed Danny's help. Had been nothing but belligerent to Scott and Jackson when he was having to deal with them. He barely even tolerated most of his Betas! And yet .. he seeks Stiles' out on occasion, and not all of them are life or death or research situations.

His entire form withers and Derek lunges forward to wrap his arms around the human. To tuck him close to his chest as he feels the first trembles wracking the teen's body.

"It's okay, Stiles. I got you." He feels as if he's been expressing that sentiment a lot lately, but he knows that he means it. Prays to whatever deity might be listening that Stiles knows he means it, too. "Screw Slade. Forget everything he said because it's bullshit and you should -know- that. Damn it ... you're the best of us half the time, Stiles. You don't care what's happening, you're always there. You .. have -never- been about Scott. Not once. You're no one's plus one, idiot." He leans forward, the tip of his nose grazing the side of Stiles' throat as he holds him. He breathes in deep and silent, his breath stuttering a little as he anchors himself with the teen's scent. "How could you think I wouldn't want you? I'm not like those idiots in school, Stiles. Even if I didn't know how useful you can be, I'd know how fucking wonderful you are." He tilts his head, lips brushing feather soft against his friend's pulse point.

"D-Derek .." The human sobs his name out, arms flying up to encircle the werewolf. His trembling fingers dig deep into the fabric stretched across the Alpha's back, clinging to him. "I .. I don't .. I-I'm not ..." The teen is close to hyperventilating, and Derek does the only thing he can think to do. He pulls back, but only far enough to see the panic across his friend's face. He then leans over, presses his lips to Stiles' in a chaste, but weighty kiss. Stiles' hands tighten in his shirt, the teen tensing every where but not pushing him away. Or letting go. Derek takes that as a good sign.

When the kiss ends, the human is blushing bright and Derek knows his own cheeks mirror the action. 

"He was gonna .. if .. if I hadn't .. he was gonna ... A-Alpha!" The final word is a soft, squeaked whimper and Derek growls before he can stop himself. Darts forward to capture Stiles' trembling lips in a searing, deep kiss. Trying to reassure his human beta that he's right here. He's fine. They're both fine. Some second rate werewolf bastard like Slade was -not- going to finish either of them off.

"I'm right here, Stiles, and I'm not going anywhere, okay?" He whispers against those silken, full lips, wishing they could stay like this. They can't, he knows. Hell, he's surprised the Sheriff hasn't gutted him yet. Or at least slapped him in cuffs for kissing his underage son out in public.

"Derek .." Whoops! Maybe he thought too soon? He reluctantly pulls away from Stiles .. turns to face the older man, braced for whatever bad is on it's way. "No one is pressing charges, so there's no need for statements or anything. We have to head back. Take my boy home, okay?" Derek blinks, uncomprehending. This .. makes no sense. Like, nothing that has just come out of the human's mouth makes the least bit of sense. "Ground rules." There we go! That restores a little bit of his sense of normality. "I'm not asking for too much here, guys. I understand how relationships go. Don't get arrested for public indecency, and don't make me listen to anything traumatic, and it's okay. Just ... get some rest. Both of you. I think you've both had a long day." He reaches out, over Derek, to gently squeeze Stiles' shoulder .. and then repeats the action to the werewolf who can do little more than gape at him in surprise.

"T-thanks, Dad. See you at supper." Stiles manages to force the words out, leaning heavily toward Derek. As the Sheriff leaves, the Alpha turns to smile faintly at Mags.

"I'll pay for the damages. Sorry about that. Come on, Stiles." He places his palm gently on the small of Stiles' back and turns him toward the door. Leading him out, into the fresh air which stiles breathes in greedy, deep lungfuls of. After a moment of thought, Derek reaches his free hand into his pocket and fishes the Camaro keys out, holding them toward Stiles.

"... seriously!?" The werewolf chuckles, nods, waits for his friend to take the keys. Stiles looks over his shoulder at the diner, and then painfully shakes his head. "I wanna say yes .. so badly. But .. I'm not entirely sure -what- I did in there, Derek, how it will effect me. You drive." Derek bites his inner cheek, feeling the fear and concern billowing off his human in heavy waves. He presses his hand more firmly against his back, waiting for him to look up, into his eyes.

"Stiles .. it's going to be okay. We'll go see Deaton tomorrow, figure out what might be happening." He leans forward to kiss him tenderly again, before pulling back with a shy smile. "Whatever it is, we'll face it together, same as we always do." Stiles blinks slowly, coming out of the daze of their shared kiss. His own smile is not shy or timid .. is not uncertain or anything. No, it's that beaming, 'I got this' smile that Derek has come to love on the teen.

"You're right, dude .. together." 

**Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this story, gave me kudos, bookmarked, and commented. I had a lot of fun writing this, and am currently considering at least a single chapter sequel.


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